“I made it through another day.” It’s what I say to myself every night before I go to bed. Sometimes when I say it, I’m thoroughly exhausted, others not so much. I know that when I finally fall asleep, it won’t be for long. I have a long night ahead of me, and all I… Continue reading What It’s Like To Live With Fibromyalgia
They always say once you have kids your life changes. Simple things like eating a hot meal, washing your hair, and having sex with the person who helped you create that kid – well it’s just going to have to wait.
My earliest memories of my father are all from my imagination. I was told I met him when I was two or three at McDonald’s. I don’t remember it, but I can almost imagine how it went. I probably cried, as this man I never even knew existed up until this point, tried to hold… Continue reading Not All Fathers Are Great But Some Are Amazing
On a beautiful Sunday afternoon, I sat outside and watched my children playing in the front yard. I heard their laughter echo as I watched the trees sway in the occasional breeze. I thought about how innocent, loving and caring they are despite living in a world filled with so much hate.
I shouldn’t be here. I should have expired on that recovery room table six years ago when I suffered a “catastrophic” event. I lost too much blood for any human being to survive. My heart tried twice in a desperate attempt to give up the ghost. Yet, I’m still here. I shook the cold hand… Continue reading Memento Mori
May 13, 2007, was the last Mother’s Day I celebrated. I have a hard time recalling what we did. The memory, nine years later, clouded by the passage of time. That fall my Mother passed away from cancer. Her battle was over; mine was just starting.
It has returned. I am filled with so much dread and anxiety that every creak in the night wakes me up. I know it will be days before I see another good night’s rest, despite my best efforts. Our house is now at DEFCON 1 status. The stomach bug is back.
About nine months ago, I got the great idea to quit my job and stay home to write full-time.
I’ve hated myself for years for many different reasons. As far back as grade school, I can remember looking into the mirror and wishing I was somehow different. Not me, most definitely not me.
It began with a “What if” and now, I’m 100 pages into answering that question. That’s how writing a story, short or novel length has always started for me. The long answer to a two-word question.