Words

In the middle of the night I sometimes jerk awake and sit up in a cold sweat with my heart pounding and my soul anguished because I am profoundly confused that the words are gone. Where are they? Will I get no peace until I find them again?

I used to write. I used to write a lot. Journals, letters, stories, articles. Of course all of this is either in one of the 25 boxes of things I will scrapbook someday or it’s hiding in files in my computer for my eyes only. However, my sons and some other members of my family can testify that I can write because they have received pages and pages of letters from me (even though my sons probably only read the first paragraph of each letter I wrote them on their missions then tossed the rest in the trash in spite of my suggestion that in view of the short amount of time they had to do personal things in the Mission Field it would be a good idea to stick the letter on the back of their toilet and read a little at a time when they were taking care of business).

Anyway, thanks to 16 years of Prozac therapy I seem to have developed perpetual writer’s block and the brilliant creative days of my manic episodes no longer exist (or maybe they were delusions…somewhat similar to “A Beautiful Mind” and I truly wasn’t brilliant or creative).

Oh Well. I will still keep trying to find those words, if for no other reason than to stop the nightmares.