I think about all the times when I needed my caregivers just to be there. They weren’t. I feel like there is a 9 year old and a 12 year old crying out inside of me wanting them to just say GOOD JOB. I know that I can not look to them for that positive reinforcement I always wanted. Anything creative that I’ve done whether that be writing or singing, it was never encouraged. My father always thought my singing was a frivolous waste and it wouldn’t amount to anything profitable and of course I should be working for our federal government in a REAL job. I remember when I saw Sister Act 2…I felt just like the Lauryn Hill character. I even went out and found “Letters to a Young Poet” by Rainer Maria Wilke. Even though reading it spoke to a voice deep inside of me, I felt I had to suppress it. So I stopped singing…I tried once years ago nothing came out but creaks and cracks I believed that I’d lost my voice. I started writing more, I wrote little things here and there but I would never share. I kept it hidden. I think my mother accidentally happened on a website I had long time ago where I posted my words. I went home for a visit only to find that she had printed out something I’d written and placed it in between the glass of her precious table. We never talked about that. During the most trying times of my life, music was my refuge and writing was my freedom. Things I’ve survived I know if it wasn’t for music I wouldn’t have made it. I know that might sound far fetched to some. All I know is that it kept me sane. Some days I feel like I want to just hit a riff but it comes out in strained whispers. I suppose my melody will come forth when it is ready. Until then I still have my pen.