I’ve been a writer my entire life; I’ve always known that sharing my story was my calling. My primary goal in life? To live a life worthy of a memoir. My crowning achievement? A month where over 100,000 people read my words.

I had reached the point where I was receiving emails from strangers thanking me for sharing my story. I was making a difference – with my words.

selective focus photography of woman wearing black cold-shoulder shirt using megaphone during daytime

And then, my life shattered around me. Everything I thought was real turned upside down – and my pinnacle of achievement became a valley of despair on a random weekday morning at 2:30 am.

The details of what happened that fateful day are cataloged elsewhere on this site – but you’ll notice that since then, there hasn’t been very much new content on here. I used to publish twice a week; now you’re lucky if you hear from me twice a year.

And you’re not the only one, dear reader. Even my family and friends have forgotten the sound of my voice.

PTSD, trauma, fear, anxiety, depression. Mental health issues have shaken me to my core since the traumatic divorce that made me question whether I could ever truly know or trust anyone. And even in the moments when I have found solace and safety and success – the world has crashed me down to the ground again.

You see, when your world crumbles around you, it doesn’t leave anything but you – standing there in the rubble with your support and your masks stripped away. And nakedness is scary – vulnerable.

I’ve Lost My Voice Because I Don’t Want To Be Judged

As a writer, I am called to tell the truth. My job is to share my experience in all its gritty gory glory – in hopes that it can help you in your journey. But telling the truth is hard – because it exposes me (and people I care about) as fallible, human, and sometimes… just plain deplorable.

I used to think that the world was good – that babies were born kind and taught meanness. But I think that’s just the story that our parents and Disney told us so we would have happy childhoods. They didn’t realize the rude awakening we would find in the world – how reality would warp and twist our brains and the fundamental foundations of our souls.

The world is actually a lot uglier than I realized. And people are pretty terrible too. I don’t say this in an accusatory way – I’m at least as bad as everyone else.

And while I do blame my mental health issues for the majority of the pain I’ve inflicted on those I love in the past few years, I also am adult enough to realize that pretty much every person I’ve encountered in the past several years has a mental health issue or traumatic past of some sort as well. It doesn’t excuse their actions – so it doesn’t excuse mine either.

We are all products of the circumstances that built us and broke us and carved us to fit society – and some of us fit in better than others. But really… we all are just what has been done to us. Most of us live our lives blind to the pain inside, but that doesn’t stop us from exercising it daily by spewing our anger, apathy, and selfishness at those around us.

I’ve Lost My Voice Because I’m Scared of The Truth I Have To Tell

I’m afraid to speak because I’m afraid of the truths I’m learning. I don’t want this to be the world I speak about. I don’t know how to exist in a world of darkness and pain, let alone how to sing that song and make it beautiful.

This is the most extreme form of writer’s block I have ever dealt with. I can’t figure out how to frame this all into a neat package of a story – it’s still so raw and ugly and imperfect. There is no happy ending. I am crippled by the choices others have made – and the impact that my naive trust in them has had on my own self esteem and self trust.

My soul is at war – trying to merge the bitterness of the world with the beauty my artist’s eyes have always seen – or perhaps, imagined. And so, I fight for every word I write – I draw it out like another pint of life blood, given with sacrifice and tears in hopes of restoring – something.

What? I don’t really know. I just know it feels like the answer.

Because maybe if I can write it all out, I can salvage something from the ashes. I can rediscover the person I was before the world decided to make me what it wanted. Maybe, I can be the wife I want to be for my husband – the inspiration I hope to be for the world – the voice that gives credence and validity and understanding to some lost soul’s sadness.

I know the world is hard. I know it will break you. I don’t know why, and I don’t think anyone does. If someone has the answers, they’ve decided not to share. And those who are eager to sell them are looking for something else to gain. But I want you to know that I’m trying to figure it out – and I am doing my best to open up the processing in my soul for you to follow along with.

Please bear with me; it’s a painful journey.

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