Fleeing the Swamp

   My name is Jacklynn Desmond and I am a writer. Or, rather, I would like to be a writer. OK, I am a great big fraud. Though I have published a novella, I haven't written anything more meaningful than a pithy comment on Facebook in almost two years.
   Yah that's right, nothing. No notebook, no journaling, no outlining, nothing. Zip. Zilch. Nadda. Now I am just copying out of a thesaurus. Is that plagiarism?
   That doesn't mean that I have been resting on my laurels, mind you. I've been busy. I had a baby, a wonderful, cherub cheeked, brown eyed package of joy I will refer to as the Rebel. I switched jobs, twice. Going from one healthcare job I can't expound upon because of HIPPA to another healthcare job also blocked by HIPPA. I enrolled in college to become a nurse at last, and I left my husband.
   So here I am, living back home with my toddler and my parents, starting a blog on how I am untangling myself from a relationship so toxic that I should have come out the other side with ninja powers or an awesome green glow, and struggling to find the muse I am sure I left behind when I packed my books and my baby and ran like hell from the trailer in the Swamp my ex had dragged me to.
   I want to build a future for myself and my son free of fear and anger, unchained from self doubt and guilt. I want to experience new things, zip lines and chocolate covered bacon and saying yes to adventure and friends. I want to teach this beautiful little boy that bravery doesn't mean you aren't scared, love doesn't mean you have to give up everything of yourself, and success can be measured in smiles and laughter.
   With it all, I want to write. I want to find that little girl that believed in magic so hard that she could let simple words on paper pluck her out of her skin and take her anywhere. The one that daydreamed and plotted worlds and people and places that would never exist until she wrote them out, the one who viewed the world with wonder, instead of dread.
   I had to bitch slap that part of me, shove her in the back while my spine grew in so I could leave the environment I was in. My son gives me peeks at her, at the beauty of the world and why I should believe, but I can't seem to grasp it.
   I hope, unlike me, she isn't gone for good.