This year has been a slow one for me in the writing department. It’s not that I lack desire, believe me, it’s there. It’s just that sometimes life and all its chaos gets in the way. And that is exactly where I am at.
I made an informed decision in the latter months of 2016 to slow down on writing. I’d written over 20 books back-to-back in a seven-year period. I was tired. I needed to some mental health time, as opposed to me time. Because, let me tell you, I’ve had my share of the many ups and downs in the writing community. Which is why you will NEVER see me partake in all the “drama” that seems to fuel opinions and attitudes within an already competitive industry.
In February of this year, my eldest son needed me. Not that he never stopped needing my help or love. But he went through a harrowing experience while in his first year of University, which warranted me contacting the University and getting him the help and assistance he needed. The outcome had me flying him home and kept him here within a caring environment and watching his every move.
Then in April, I decided I needed to do something else. I had itchy feet. I wanted to get back out there, and do something for me, in a completely different industry.
Within a week of applying for my position, I had got the job, and I never felt better about myself. Because working in the health industry had never been something I considered. Flash forward four months, and I’m a valued member of a team, working with adults who have learning difficulties. The days are gruelling 13 hours duties. I seem to spend more time at work than at home. Even when I’m tired and I don’t think I can give anymore, a hug from one of my clients is all it takes to make me realise that I am doing a wonderful job.
Anyway, in between all this, my son – my beautiful, intelligent, creative boy – continues to struggle. To the point he tried to take his own life in front of me. It was traumatic and the image will never leave my mind. However, it’s not something I will talk about in depth. I respect his privacy and that of my family. But let me tell you something. Nothing prepares you for the pain of watching your own flesh and blood believe that there is no point in carrying on. To hear him say those things, crushes me inside.
It hurts me.
It angers me.
It makes me feel powerless.
But this is his pain. His suffering. There is no place for my selfishness.
My observations over the past month or so has led me to this: People are very quick to pass judgement on a situation they know nothing of. They are cruel and vile, and mostly, arrogant hypocrites. Of course, that’s a story for another time.
Yet, through all this darkness, I’ve remained optimistic. How can I not? I know that with the continued help and guidance from both family and health professionals, he will get past this. I will write many more books. I will continue lifting weights. Running up hill. Diving to the deepest depths. Living life to the fullest. Chasing dreams.
Because I was born a fighter; a survivor, and I never give up.