A Battle

The bio portion of our profiles as creators isn't much at 240 characters. That is hardly enough to get to know someone. I have been writing for eighteen years since I was seven years old! It really doesn't seem real sometimes and I look forward to using this platform to expand my reader pool!

So, a bit about me as promised. Other than writing for eighteen years, I've been through a whole lot of well to put it nicely...I've been through Hell. In the last year and some change, I've lost my mother(who I had a complicated, toxic relationship) to kidney failure, and then just recently in the beginning of July I lost my grandmother to cancer.

My grandmother raised my sister and I mostly because my mother after her divorce couldn't be bothered; she had her excuses and us being children didn't really question it. I wouldn't change anything; at least not the parts that didn't hurt my very soul. I would spend hours in the kitchen with my grandma; or hours in her room reading our books, or she would be watching a crime drama and I would be writing. It didn't matter what we did, as long as we were together because she was my best friend and my number one supporter through everything.

My grandma wanted me to write, she wanted me to make something of myself doing what I loved; and I'm trying desperately to do that for her. It is not the easiest field to get into. Everything has been done before, but my philosophy is always 'but it hasn't been done by YOU'. So I decided to rewrite my baby, a series of Urban Fantasy books while my grandma was in her Comfort Care home, where I also work.

I've realized I haven't actually told you reader, who I am. Not really. I went off on a tangent about my grandma; but you see I wouldn't be who I am without my grandma. She shaped me into who I am today, from my sass, to the way I view the world. We may differ on favorite genres, but in our souls we were mirror images.

Where she was light and full of life, like a butterfly; I was dark and tainted by my pain where she had overcome her's. Where she always had a smile and a cookie to give; I had R.B.F and a book in hand. I was a recluse and she was too; but she also loved being around people. She loved unconditionally...and I can't bring myself to give my heart so freely.

I hold onto my pain, chain it to me so it cannot escape and I lash out with it at my characters. Death and blood stain the pages of my books like coffee mug rings on a table; so freely I give out stab wounds and magical fatalities because at least I'm not hurting real people right?

I am guilty of holding onto my trauma because without it, who am I? A scared girl curled up in the fetal position in the dark recesses of my mind, watching as the darkness swirls and overwhelms anything that could be considered happiness and contentment. My strong characters try and fight these demons away, but the scared girl in the corner fights too and she is on the side of darkness...and in this case the darkness always wins.

Faking a smile, and a cheery attitude was a survival tactic that was learned and now I can't let it go because me being happy always resulted in heartbreak and disappointment. I never let my hopes up, because they are always brought back down; slashed and bleeding by outside darkness and high expectations of things out of my control.

Control. Control is a fake ideal, no one has control of anything. The idea of control is held out in the palms of demons and shadows, their tendrils slithering towards you with your unseeing eyes, ready to rip your feet from out of underneath you; so you fall and frail your limbs; reaching out from the semblance of control that the darkness still holds onto; because your demons are in control...so you fall but not to Wonderland like Alice, you fall into a false semblance of normality that you accept and 'deal' with. I don't control anything...not really. I like to think that I control the darkness, when it can show itself, when it can take over and make me cry...but really I'm just numb.

Being numb makes me feel broken but I would rather be broken than an inconsolable mess on the floor unable to stand and to function. I would rather be my version of broken than someone that is helpless and alone. I am alone by choice; out of necessity because at alone my soul is at peace. It is not fighting anything outside of me and my own battles. It is hard for me to find other people that are as silent as my empty apartment besides my only constant companion my dog. Too many people have loud souls that disrupt my peace, and set me on edge so I am picky with who I let into my sanctum...because peace is so hard for me to find.

Finally...oh finally I have a whole apartment to myself. peace galore and I can feel myself healing. Getting back to the little girl in the recesses of my mind, she's uncurling, unfurling her wings; ready to unleash her fire and burn away the darkness but her fire cannot cleanse every corner...there is still darkness, but this girl now glows with her inner fire and it keeps the darkness at bay; and I can finally breathe. The weight is lifted and I can still be who I am.

A little dark, a little sassy, a bit funny, and all me. I have a big heart, a kind soul, and a dark past but I'm looking towards a bright future.