I think I am too tired to write this blog tonight.
I am trying to write every day or every other day. I am trying to write consistently so I can establish this habit of sitting at the computer once a day. I want words to come easier; my vocabulary is rusty after not being exercised in too long. I want to write a story for you.
A story about a girl who wishes she was never born. Not the stuff of happy endings, usually.
The story is about a girl who didn’t have a relationship her father, who grew up anyway. A story about things she isn’t ready to talk about and things that will take a long time to talk about and things like this. Things like this because she doesn’t know what to write and she is just trying to write something.
This story is full of heartache and sorrow. The end though, well, there is still a lot of heartache and sorrow, honestly. It never ends. That is the story. The heartache and sorrow never end and she still lives a long life wishing she was never born.
I think I will rewrite the ending.
I will write until she is happy, truly happy, for maybe the first time in her life. Joyous. Elated. LIVING. She will find what it means to be alive for the first time. Living for herself, for her family, for the people who need her, for the people who love her. She will allow herself to feel loved, to feel included, to only need validation from herself. She will keep breathing, she will keep living, and she will wake up and think, “I am so glad I was born.”
