To find myself, I wrote.
The words were my pathway.
I wrote about everything.
Abuse. Addiction. Divorce. Suicide. Recovery. Love. Hope. Life.
I called it my Rewoven Life.
In each sentence, I discovered more of myself…
I gained confidence and stability.
And eventually, some part of me must have thought I had arrived.
I forgot. There is no arriving.
Only becoming. Always becoming.
And then I got sick… really sick.
That place I had written from shifted.
Whether I liked it or not,
I couldn’t write from there anymore.
It was the unraveling.
And since then I’ve been silent.
But I need to write again.
I need to find out what words are within me now;
to learn the sound of my new voice.
I need to discover where I am…
or where I’m not.
The words will be my pathway.
I’ll find myself again.
