Kiss Me Like You Kiss Your Boyfriends.
Sounds provocative & sexy, right? Like something out of a 50 Shades novel – ok well maybe not since Anastasia had never had a boyfriend before – but you get where I’m going with that.
The unfortunate thing is that for me personally, there is nothing provocative or sexy about that statement. The first time it was said to me I was 12, uncomfortably laying on a couch with my ex-stepfather. I had never even really kissed a boy at that point & couldn’t understand why he would ask me to do that. I don’t even think it really registered at first.
This is the first time I am sharing this detailed of a recount of my past with everyone in my blog audience and online social life.
There are many reasons I have decided to start sharing my past experiences, much of which I covered in a recent post about my lack of compassion for child abusers.
One reason to specifically share this detail, is that Kiss Me Like You Kiss Your Boyfriends, is also the title of my first novel – that is if I ever get around to finishing it.
I am hoping that maybe, if I get taking about it a bit more on here and discussing it with some more people in my life, I will be motivated to getting back into writing. I’m not committing to a schedule when it comes to this topic, because I don’t know how much I am emotionally ready to share, but I promise to be more open to sharing even little bits. As uncomfortable as it may be, I think I need it.
I started writing in the first place at the suggestion of my counselor in college, as a way to create an outlet for the paranoia and night terrors I was having in the wake of leaving my mom and moving out onto my own. It was the change of that stability that we had had as a family in the wake of those events. He had been arrested when I was 15, but leaving my mom 4 years later was still somewhat traumatic for me.
I haven’t worked on my novel since I got pregnant with Lilly. At first it was simply because I was exhausted. I was asleep, laying in a puddle of my own drool and wrapped in an afgan my mother-in-law made me, every night by 7pm…leaving the house a complete disaster. So naturally my novel became a bit of an after thought.
After that we were getting ready to welcome our baby and have been consumed with new found motherhood ever since. I want to say that I just haven’t found the time. But really that’s a cop-out. I have found the time to blog, tweet, facebook and pin…so I do need to prioritize finding that time to write.
I have just noticed lately that my level of paranoia is increasing again. I don’t like passing people on the street & I practically board up the house at night, even though we live in the middle of no where and even had to check all the closets in a places we stayed recently.
While I do think that this is hightened somewhat because I have become a mother (maybe watched one too many horror movies) and have a deeper sense of family security, I feel it also mixes with my past. I’m sure some of it will stick with me, especially around my kids, but I want to ensure that I don’t allow it to approach an unhappy level.
I don’t ever want to go back to living in fear.
I think I need to get back to my novel as a way of giving myself that outlet, to tell that story and to just get it out in the open.
I had always thought that if I ever finished my novel and was lucky enough to have it published, I would call it fiction and only those who knew me personally would know the truth. Well, this post obviously does away with that idea, but I guess I am ok with that.
I am writing this story to have it out and no longer haunting me. To allow me to move on. That’s all there is to it.
In an idea world, I wouldn’t have something like this to write about in the first place.