Long Blue Line | Pre-Continuation

Shall I begin?
Let's see. I'm the author of my own five-hundred and something page memoir and to be honest...I haven't even read my own book. After spending a year of writing a memoir (or any book for that matter), you'd expect the author would reserve some time aside to read their hard work that they invested so much time into, and relax for once. Not me. 

I didn't have to think about what I would write next. It was already stuffed away in my dark and blurry memory. The most difficult task that I hadn't expected to face was having to actually force myself to think about those memories. It was the most difficult internal battle I've ever dealt with. I would write obsessively for weeks at a time, hardly sleeping as I typed away, and I knew that I would need to take a break when the signs of PTSD began rearing their ugly faces. The flashbacks were getting more intense, and I was getting closer and closer to believing that this time around, I really might end up in a white jacket. Reality was always sure to snap back to me when my husband called my name, or when my little girl demanded that I read her a book. These came to be moments of clarity. I went from devastation to elation in a matter of seconds. This was raw emotion.

I won't lie. The highs and lows sucked at times. But, they were there for a solid purpose. Without forcing myself to feel like shit for one moment, and completely thankful the next, my story wouldn't have the ability to tell itself. I was forced into moments of being faced with two options. Either skip over that one bad part that I really wasn't so proud of, or to suck it up and write with raw honesty. 

I wasn't writing for other people. I wasn't writing to "get it off my chest". I was writing because I missed myself. I had forgotten who I was and what I wanted to be when I grew up. I missed my young teen years where I spent summer after summer hiding in my bedroom reading my twisted novels. I missed all of the times where I would pretend that I was playing my guitar on a stage, in the spotlight with an audience in total awe.  I missed the moments where I couldn't just not sing along to my favorite songs, and even though I was embarrassed that my mom and sisters could most likely hear the teenage echo bouncing off of my beamed bedroom ceiling, I just couldn't help but sing.
I missed the little girl who I could never return to. I missed the kid who was making flip books of her future mansions in Palm Springs. I missed my childhood.

I needed to know why, or at least understand what could have possibly influenced my future choices as a young adult. I didn't know if I would find answers, but I had to try. I was at a turning point in life, and I knew that if I wasn't brave and continued to keep my eyes closed to my hidden past, my bright future had the possibility of dimming back out to subconscious self-destruction and pain. I wasn't willing to ever go back to that place. My life depended on this. 

I won't lie. I'm not jumping up and down over reading this book. But, my curiosity is slightly killing me. This blog (and whoever reads it) is going to hold my hand.

Never let any obstacle, no matter how great or small, stand in your way of living for your passion and fighting for what you believe in. We get one life. Max it out.

 –E. McNew

And so we rewind to a distant memory in 2001.

Chapter 1 | Long Blue Line