Piece of Me

Moving is hectic. Rather you are moving miles away, or just down the driveway, it is a very stressful time. You see, my mother is moving in with her fiancé, and I’m moving into a small house on my grandparents’ property. My grandparents are moving on to the same property, and my older brother and his fiancé are moving into my grandparents’ old house. It’s been a wild experience, but it has actually been very beneficial for me.

I have bookshelves at both my old house and my grandparents’ old house, and they are loaded with notebooks and folders full of my writing from over the years. I haven’t opened any of them in ages because I have been trying to let that girl go. I have been trying to forget how she felt, and why she felt that way, but I had to decide rather to throw all those notebooks away, or go through them and save something worth saving.

Now keep in mind, I am talking about fifty or more notebooks full of scattered thoughts. Who would want to go through a twelve-to-fifteen-year-old’s entire collection of senseless emotions? Not me. I wanted to trash it all and move on with my life, and I was fully prepared to do it. I threw them all in a box, and vowed to get rid of them.

This weekend, my best friend came over to help me with the moving, and she stumbled across a ripped up, red folder. She threw it at me, and I opened it thoughtlessly. Inside was a short story and poem that I had written is eighth grade. These to pieces are the only award-winning pieces I have, mainly because I was too terrified to submit anything. As I read over them, something connected inside of me. I remembered writing them; I remembered how it felt. They weren’t my greatest pieces, but I remembered how proud eighth grade me was when I heard that voicemail telling me that I had won first place in poetry and short-story in the Pike County Literary Competition. I haven’t felt that pride in a long time.

Back then, I was convinced that I was an amazing writer. It was before I had real things to worry about. It was before the competitiveness busted inside me. It was that period after my world fell apart for the fist time and before I lost myself. It was that period when I knew who I was and I was proud.

I decided to read through the rest of the notebooks, and it broke my heart. I was finding my voice then. Everything was so bare. It was horrible writing, but it was a beautiful thought.

A weight was lifted off me. I felt a little more free than I did before. I could feel my soul finding that passion again. It has been missing for a while.

I guess sometimes you have to find your younger-self, before you can figure out who you are.