From my childhood and throughout my teens, I kept a diary, religiously. Devotedly. And flicking through the pages you could always tell when I was having a bad day, a rough time. Not because of the essays written, but the economy of the words. So after weeks of reflections and observations and giddiness – there would be a lonely page with a few words .
They left today.
It wasn’t deliberate, but it was like lack of words left the silence of bare naked pages to weep, hurt and bleed for me. Sometimes the silence screamed my feelings of desolation, echoed my emptiness. The fewer the words, the greater the pain.
2008 was my annus horribilis. My foster mum gently, quietly ebbed away. She was a light in my youngest years, and though I’m now a woman with a new light to guide the way, I knew when that light went out. Five weeks later, my dad tearfully put the final pieces of our broken relationship back together and said his final goodbye.
Alongside this were other personal losses – but these were the defining ones.
I didn’t realize it at the time, but the pages of the blog went blank. It’s not like nothing was happening. Personally, professionally, politically. But I didn’t write. Months passed and I didn’t write.
I wasn’t miserable the whole time. There were great times and dull times and all things in between. Life happened as it always did and we got on board. I did attempt to blog, but the ideas and the motivation never stuck around long enough for anything to materialize.
Then one day, I found words again. Words bubbling up, speaking out, shaping my thoughts and feelings. So much so that it was time to start again, and for the first time in a long while, I actually felt I could.
So here I am, and this time, hopefully back for good.