What happened?

I used to write. A lot. All the time. Unsent letters, poems, short stories. My last journal entry dates back 7 years. What the fuck happened to me? How can a need so strong just fade away like that?

Even before that, while pregnant with my son, I attended some classes at Concordia. Our French teacher asked us to write a journal. At least 20 lines a day. On anything. Just free writing. I had such a hard time. It was an ordeal every time I looked at the page.

So for the last 12 years or so, where have I been?

A few months ago, I started to see myself again. I’m scared though. Am I still the same? Have I changed so much that I’m just an illusion of my old self. And who was I then anyways?

I don’t want everything that I’ve become to be false. I don’t want everything that I believe I am today to be a cover up. A shield I’ve put up just to forget who I used to be.

Was the writing an expression of my true self? I think so. But that was me then. I’ve got to be careful not to fool myself into believing that this is still me. But the essence should be there.

How do we define ourselves through time, experiences, joys, mournings, regrets? Should we go back to how we felt before or embrace the changes that each event brought onto us?

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