The Journey I Embarked On When I Choose to Write My Story

The process of writing my story has been a journey of listening to my heart/gut. It’s like riding a roller coaster except backwards. It’s exactly opposite of all the advice I’ve ever received on writing a book. Which isn’t a problem. I’ve taken care of myself my entire life and that was pretty much the same story. What I needed was everything that everyone else thought I shouldn’t be doing. So, I went out and did it anyway. I gave myself the best healing I could possible. It’s my job to take care of myself the best I can. And I chose to love myself all the way through it.

I’ve got to the place where I’m ready to edit my story. I can’t wait for this to be over. Actually, yes, I can. The firsts are always the worst (in my experience) whether it’s a book, job, relationship, or something else.

This editing job is huge and I’m expecting to rewrite the whole thing, but before I do that I have to decide what my story is about. Why am I telling my story?

I have two options:

  1. Memoir.
  2. Fiction based on true experiences.

Up until now I was planning on doing the second one, but just lately my heart has been nudging me towards #1. The problem is my story. It doesn’t make me feel good. It doesn’t help me in any way. Except the act of writing it. Now I’m beginning to feel like a normal person.

I thought my childhood was tough. Having my virginity torn out of my hands without permission before I knew I even had a ‘virginity’, my parents weren’t supportive, I didn’t have any friends I could trust even though I could make friends quite easily, growing up in a heartbeat and trying to keep up with myself; learning, growing, raising myself because mom and dad weren’t interested in me or so I interpreted their actions.

But writing about the darkness before the dawn I’m not sure if my childhood was difficult at all. Sometimes I wonder how I’ve made it this far unscathed. Most, if not all of the decisions I had to make were options I wouldn’t have ever considered as options to choose from, and everything I ever wanted was completely out of my reach. There were a few times where it was so close, and yet so far … it felt like it was tearing my heart apart, but I found out later my heart was growing.

The hardest part for me is the healing. To allow myself a day or two of simply reading, playing with Cookie, or yard work because I simply can’t handle writing another page of pain. I’ve worked like hell with less than nothing to show for it. The tears, the pain, the heartache. Some days I’d rather bury my head in the sand.


I remember the promises I made myself. Healing my body emotionally and physically. I can’t say anymore I have nothing to show for it. It’s showing and I’m proud of myself!

Now to continue editing my story!

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