I tend to date all my entries. Even here. Why? If you haven’t quite noticed, I don’t always finish my posts, and sometimes it takes days for me to even get through my own thoughts. I tend to go on tangents sometimes. I’ve been accused of giving too much background and detail. That can be true. The thing is, I want the listener/reader to be able to experience it. A strange to want, no?

It could be a result of all the books I read as a kid and growing up. I was reading books beyond my age starting in fourth grade. Started reading Stephen Kings books around then. A neighbor had a big collection at that time. Reading was one of the few avenues of entertainment when I was a kid. My mom still has my collection of Nancy Drew books and Baby-Sitters Club books. I was reading The Scarlet Letter in fourth and fifth grade. I was reading The Idiot by Dostoevsky my freshman year in high school. Now that I think about it, I never finished it. Might have to dig that one out, along with a few other books that have recently pique my re-interest.

In any case, these books offered detail where I could experience it. It’s fascinating because all authors use their words differently to transport their readers. Even in some of the more simplstic writing, one could experience the words. It certainly helps having a wild imagination, right?

Reading was an escape for me. At times, it still is – especially when I pick up a fiction book. Writing became an escape for me more when I got into college. I’ve been writing a lot of my life. It seems it’s the best way I can express myself. I had a friend say I was a “prolific writer,” and to be honest, I had to look prolific up. I thought maybe it was a slight poke at my writing, like I wrote too much for anyone to stay engaged, especially in my social media posts. Then, I realized my friend was complimenting me. Eventually, it came to a point where I really didn’t care if people read my posts or not.

Google Search:

pro·lif·ic/prəˈlifik/Learn to pronounceadjectiveadjective: prolific

1. (of a plant, animal, or person) producing much fruit or foliage or many offspring.”in captivity tigers are prolific breeders” Similar: productive creative inventive fertile
   • (of an artist, author, or composer) producing many works.”he was a prolific composer of operas”
   • (of a sports player) high-scoring.”a prolific home-run hitter
2. present in large numbers or quantities; plentiful.”mahogany was once prolific in the tropical forests” Similar: plentiful abundant bountiful profuse copious luxuriant rich lush proliferative fertile fruitful fecundriferank plenteous bounteous proliferous
   • (of a river, area, or season of the year) characterized by plentiful wildlife or produce.”the prolific rivers and lakes of Franklin County”

And honestly, this blog is one of the many avenues I write. I have numerous journals and notebooks laying around, “ready” for me to grab when something demands I write of it. And sometimes, there isn’t anything available for me to get the words out. The thoughts. Oh, the number of thoughts that attack and beg me to be released onto screen or paper. At times, they’ll be forgotten among the busy streets of my mind, or they’ll suddenly swerve out of the lines, and I can’t do anything but write.

The Boy found this blog. He told me a few months ago. My first thought was, “OH, shit. Is he mad for what I’ve written?” Then, when I asked him what his thoughts were, he didn’t seem upset. The more I thought about it, and when I became honest with myself, I knew it was eventual the kids would find this. My words. And I had promised myself when I started this blog, I wouldn’t edit for anyone. This blog is for me. If I get readers, so be it. If I get loyal readers, I’m further blessed. Like I’ve learned, said before, and have been told, I cannot control how other people react to me, my actions, and my words. That’s been a hard lesson to grasp and understand, and it’s offered me so much more freedom.

In college, I found chat rooms. Oh, what a rabbit hole that was for me. Eventually, I found a chat room that was basically folks role-playing characters of their own design, even if based on different forums. It became an escape for me – for me to be someone or something else. I made some amazing friends through those chat rooms; friends I still talk with after 20+ years. They taught me how to write, how to improve my writing skills. I learned from each of them in their own writing styles and even of the worlds they created of their own imagination and desires.

It occurred to me recently, that my writing was actually a form of therapy for me. A way for me to express the repressed voices in me. The characters I created had some connection to what I felt lacking in my life, or some wish of what I could be in my real life. Strangely, I found out playing male was easier than females. If I played a female, she was angry and bitter or very doelike and complacent, a giver.

I find I can’t write like I used to, nor do I write quite like I used to. One develops over the years. Different styles. Different perspectives. I can still be very detailed in my descriptions. I do want the reader to experience it, even if they can’t really know every single thought or movement that happened

This blog was intended to let you in on one life affected by the aftermath of a suicide. It will happen, adn you will also witness other happenings of this life. I will time-travel with you. You will experience things with me that if you do know me, probably would never have guessed it of me. Then again, as a saying goes, “There are some chapters that aren’t made for sharing…” or something like that.

I’m going to be as honest as it feels in aligntment with me. Because this is for me.