Not many of you know my story, one that I have carried with me like a weighted backpack on the back of a scared and broken twelve-year-old girl. My inner child remembers all too well the feeling of not having enough and of never feeling like she was enough. I was never enough to keep my father in my life, I was not enough to keep addiction from destroying my family and I was never enough for somebody, anybody to want to keep me. The pen I write with, the torn pages surrounding my adult frame, are all torn from that little girl's notebook. My hand steadies her trembling hand as I scribble thoughts so quickly from my overcrowded brain. Her and I are one in the same, she is my inner child, and it is my mission in this life to make things right for her. To try to make things right for all little girls and boys who feel so deeply inside of themselves that they are not enough. I write to clear the air, to force people to see the hurt and damage they cause and so that those scared kids know that they are not alone. Things are not their faults and sometimes things happen that just suck. My poetry anthology, titled Scribblings of a Chaotic Mind, is available for purchase on Amazon.com. It was forged out of the need to find a way to process a heavy weight placed on a young girl's shoulder. My personal story is one of grief and confusion and hurt. It is long and bumpy, and I am working on gathering the pieces of my life together and ordering them nicely in my memoir. I am hoping to have that available by years end or the beginning of next year. I am also picking away at another poetry collection, it strings itself together bit by bit. I will get there, walking steadily forward, still carrying the weight of that heavy backpack full of pieces of me, but now I no longer walk alone.
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