One Week

It's been one week since I gave my notice at work. I go up and down between peace and anxiety. It just happened so fast. It's almost as if the Universe pushed me off a cliff and now I have to learn to fly. 

I have always wanted to be a writer. A real writer - not part-time, not sometime, but all the time. I did earn my living as a writer many moons ago, and I should have stuck with it. Don't know why I turned away. Don't know what exactly made me stop. There's always been this all-pervading fear about writing and me, and, let's face it, about life in general. I've always felt like an alien from another planet, never felt like I belonged. I guess that's why I'm always searching for home, a place where I feel accepted and loved just for being who I am. 

And now I'm guessing that must come from within because no matter where I live or where I work or who I'm with, I'm always alone. A loner. And I don't know if that stops me from writing, from being a thoroughly creative person, on a consistent basis.

I pledge to honor who I am . . . and then I immediately get this rant in my head that says, Yeah, that's easy to say now, but when time goes by and you don't have a job and the money you've saved (which isn't that much) is being used up by bills and things like food, you won't be so high and mighty then.

Just how do people stay strong and believe in themselves, in their abilities? I'm searching for that belief right now.

I'm a baby boomer. It's way past time for me to reclaim the wild and creative teenager I was, still am somewhere. I don't know how that girl got lost or buried, but the one thing about life is you never truly lose your past selves. They make up who you are now, and I'm guessing you can open the door to the parts of yourself you want to live again.

Wish me luck. No, tell me I can do it. Tell me you believe in me. Tell me everything's going to be fine. Yes, everything is going to be just fine.