by April Trice

Created on: November 17, 2008

It took four marriages (twice to the same man), five children, two stints in a "Mental Facility", drug addiction, alcoholism, being ostracized by my family and a Spiritual Awakening to realize that I was born to write. Harsh, some would say. Apparently I wasn't easily convinced...I needed a fist shoved down my throat, acid poured DOWN the throat and that barely got my attention.

It was my custom in the early 90's to openly scoff at the "writers" who nonchalantly situated themselves in every coffee shop with an open door, trying to be as conspicuously inconspicuous as possible. Perhaps I scoffed due to a faint streak of jealousy. Jealous that I had graduated from High School two years ago and STILL had no idea what to do with my life. "You can be anything you want to be!" my parents promised. I needed that narrowed down. Too many options confused and rattled me. I latched on to every career that went drifting by. A Veterinarian! Yes! I love animals, that's EXACTLY what I want to do! Never even made it to the Admissions office. Hey! I could cut keys at Sears. I like keys. People need keys. This was job security of the highest order. Two months later, I became claustrophobic in my little box situated under the escalator that led to the Juniors and Men's Departments. So I quit. This was roughly about the time the "Pattern" developed. Intense interest, over-the-top enthusiasm, hired, everyone loves me, I'm the life of the party, this is getting boring, I'm tired of this, what do you mean, I'm grouchy? I QUIT!

Around the age of 21, Life came along, picked me up off my laurels and commenced to beating me about the neck and shoulders until I lost consciousness. When I came to, all I wanted to do was run from whatever it was that was chasing me. Lather, rinse, repeat. I'm sure for those watching my life unfold, it was a bit like watching that movie "Groundhog Day". Oh dear. There she goes again. And I thought she'd gotten it together this time. Didn't you? She seemed to be doing so well.

I had written since I knew how to hold a pencil. I got A's on all my papers, notes scribbled on my report card assuring my parents that I was right on track. I won Essay contests. I filled numerous red diaries with rants and raves about who I loved that week, who I thought I was becoming and who I wanted to be when I grew up. Then I locked them securely with my little gold key, hiding them between my mattresses so that my deepest fears, dreams and fantasies were safe from my little brother

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