A Writer Blocked

The day my voice was stolen was brutal and violent. 

The harsh words thrashing around the room ripped open my throat and tore out my vocal chords, membrane by membrane. As they fell to the ground, blooded and broken, anger crushed them into a dusty layer over the floor.

I was left raw, ashamed and exposed.

My voice fell silent. It limped deep inside, hidden from the world, cowering from rejection. 

And in the instance that my voice disappeared, so The Shadow Years began.  

I became a multitude of personas during The Shadow Years; I was a step mother, a mother, a single mother, a girlfriend, a mother of two, a working parent, a wife. I became everything to everyone but no-one to myself.  My inner voice was lost, not even heard by my subconscious. Busyness crowded out the sound of the creative. Action rode roughshod over quiet reflection.

A life changing hiatus gently quietened the external chatter. As the days slowed and the mind wandered, I read an article that asked ‘What is true about you today that would make your 8 year old self cry?*

And there it was.  An internal punch to my stomach arched up into my throat and my angry voice shouted:

“You were the words that made sense of the world around you. Those words anchored your soul when the seas you traversed were turbulent. Those words provided warm comfort from the cold that enveloped your life. And those words were precious, and they were important, and they were yours. They asked nothing of anyone. They were your own private Idaho”

Those words were mine. Always were mine. Until they were stolen.

In that instance, I took my hands to the keyboard and for the first time in 20 years, my voice was heard.

*https://markmanson.net/life-purpose