Just Inspired For Being Inspired – Part Two

My poor, sleepy, hubby. :)

Much of the happiness I’d achieved with my friends and adoptive family was ripped away when I was sixteen. Do to some stupidity on my part and a lot of circumstances I’ve no heart to type about here I was thrown back into foster care, a hell I’d experienced on and off throughout my life. I’ll leave out the details but suffice to say after a year there I had to quit writing. Not because they said I had to, they didn’t- if anything they were like my bio mother was with my art. No, instead I quit because I’d long ago realized that as far as certain stories went my characters and the situations I thrust them into were largely connected to whatever was going on in my life at the time.

I’d quit because I’d made my alter ego into a villain and then had him try to kill himself. Several times. I’d dabbled in self harm all my life and had recently acquired an odd fascination with my own blood. Putting two and two together I put my book in progress down and haven’t touched it since- even though it’s a story I’ve been working on since I was six and a tome I’d been typing and scribbling since I was twelve.

Instead I took up the noble, and not as easy as it sounds, art of journal keeping. I did it because I couldn’t ‘not’ write and because I wanted to keep track of everything. Too many people around me were trying to convince me that things weren’t what they looked like and that I was a liar (See Through Story). Again, I’m not going to get into it in this post.

I met my husband while in foster care. I was seventeen and he was not. I had the hugest crush on him but never spoke of it. I never had an inkling he liked me that way until much later despite all the signs- and even if there hadn’t been any, he was just such a wonderful person. Still is.

I was desperate to be treated like an equal at the time. The foster parents treated us like less- we even ate second when people were over. All my life, even with my mother who seldom paid me any mind, I’d been treated like an equal. She spoke to me as if I was an adult- more a roommate than her own child, but still as if I was able to understand every word out of her mouth. My adoptive mom L and I had so many conversations well into the night where we spoke of everything and though she was playing the part of teacher she still spoke to me as I would speak to her.

Having all that ripped from me and thrown into a place where I knew no one- a home with six teenage girls who knew more swears than three syllable words… I cringe even now. I was treated as one of them and less. They were treated as less but I digress. That’s why I got a part time job- so I would be treated like human again. So I would have someone to talk to even if it was about nothing at all.

In the night I was required to find my own ride home. We weren’t more than a mile from where I worked but there were two pedophiles (and yes, I’m serious) between point A and B and I was often soaked to the bone- something that doesn’t bode well for one preparing to trudge through snow. He found out about my predicament and offered to give me a ride when his shift was over- some two or more hours after mine.

I didn’t mind waiting. More time away from the house I hated. I spent the time riding around with him while he did his rounds and without even realizing I made the best friend I have ever had. I was so entranced in our conversations that I never once thought about what level he spoke to me on, never once realized I wasn’t afraid of him like I was so many other men, never once realized how hopelessly attached I became to him.

I wouldn’t miss a chance to spot him at work even if it was just passing by and looking back I realize he went through the same thing. When we did manage to catch eachother or the night ended and he drove me back to the house we spoke of everything. I unabashedly told him of my spiritual beliefs- something I’d become increasingly timid of doing in foster care, my writing, my anger, my mother, my quests, and my absolute depression.

When I managed to procure a cell phone, bought second hand from one of the other girls and hidden just as she had done, I’d spend my nights texting him in silence. Not because we were in love- not knowingly, but because when ‘new message’ flashed across the screen he was literally my light in the dark. Sometimes I would be feeling like absolute crap- well, often especially towards the end, and suddenly I’d receive a text as if he knew. Somehow I still believe he did.

Months later the world twisted again. I legally ran away from foster care. Yes, there is such a thing but it’s complicated and only worked for me because… miracles happen sometimes I suppose. I lived with some friends, still journal writing but never once looking back at my other notebooks. A few months after that I moved in with him because he was able to get me to work and back. Around my eighteenth we shared our first kiss, when it happened I thought he was insane. I honestly believed he’d drank some bad coffee and done it in a moment of hallucination. I waved him goodnight and went to bed.

The next night it happened again and I’ve been kissing him goodnight ever since.

I’ve fallen off my track haven’t I? Skipping all the stuff in between- It still took me awhile to get back into my writing. I was so very afraid. Not necessarily of my characters killing themselves but that the foster parents had been right and my role was best cast as the villain. Needless to say, my last few months in foster hell were especially trying on my mentality and view of myself. I was terrified of who I was and what would be revealed in my words.

My hunny didn’t push me. He didn’t ask but he’d listen when I’d tell him things and though I didn’t say it outright at first I think he had a good idea what I was going through. He’s not a writer, he couldn’t talk me through whatever my problem was in this field but he could provide me with everything I needed to get through it and he did. I needed time, I had it. I needed paper, it was mine. For Christmas he bought me a laptop and I don’t think I’ve gone more than two months without a new book or two about writing.

The poor man even pays attention when I start rambling about characters, plots, sub-plot, point of view, and everything in between. He even remembers what I say!

Somehow, through it all, I picked up my pen again with more resolve than I’ve ever had. I’m set on this path and he- all these wonderful people in my life, are with me on it. They might think I’m crazy but not for this and though they’ll occasionally ask me why, they support me every step of the way.

I don’t know. I guess what I’m trying to say in this long rambling post that’s already had one too many a pit stop is that I am a writer. Not because I write stories but because the people in my life have been there for me and not only showed me how to open them but I dare to say they’ve given me my wings.

We all have this amazing power to soar above everything but no one flies alone and I was just really glad to see that message conveyed.

See part one here.

Tags: friendship, inspired, julie & julia, love, move, my writing live

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