I lost myself.

Isn’t that a weird thing to lose? Yourself? I mean, I am right here. I can see myself when I look in the mirror. It’s me – same eyes, same nose, same scars, same smile. Even my hair is the same. But I am lost. Me – the one who is inside.

It may be the strangest thing that has ever happened to me. Years ago, maybe five years plus, I was different. I was…me. But how was I me, and how did I lose myself? Well, that’s maybe the oddest part of all, and maybe a little hard for me to fathom.

One day – at the end of 2009, I think – I created my Facebook account. I had fun on there; played, made friends. It was probably a really great time for me. But the catch was I had a pen name for my writing. Yet, oddly, the time I wore a mask was when I was able to be me.

I realise that I lost myself the day I released my first book. It wasn’t fiction nor fun, but it was me. The real me. It was about me and my life. Somehow, when I sent myself into the world without my mask, I got lost.

Maybe it is better to write under a pen name. Maybe it is better to hide a little. Isn’t it weird that when we are unknown to the people around us, we are more ourselves than with the people who know us and love us dearly?

I miss my jokes – not that they were funny.

I miss my daily writing – not that it was ever good, but it was fun.

I miss devouring book after book and not coming up to view the world.

I miss laughter…my own.

I miss music and my endless searches for another great band or song.

I miss that writing spark inside – it’s there, I can feel it sometimes, but I fail to ignite it.

I miss drinking beer while sitting on my decking outside.

Mostly, I miss myself.

New Book Released!!!

If I Were To Die Today is the new book, this one follows on from the Dark Ramblings of the Phoenix. Although, stand alone. As always with my books, please take special care of yourself if any of these may trigger you.

photoBuy it here



Look Away.

I have a few mixed emotions today about my book. Today I have heard three times from people, sorry, but they can’t read it because of its content. While part of me understands that. And really I do, sometimes things upset others too much and it’s easier to not read or look, or put yourself through the trauma.

My emotions come from why? Why do people have to tell me? Why say it like a shrug, oh sorry I can’t read that but good luck with it anyway. Am I being harsh that sometimes hearing it upsets me? Sometimes it feels like the child inside that wrote this is being turned away from again.

Sometimes I hate him. Sometimes I feel him and sometimes I am him.

Sometimes it feels like people are turning their backs because they don’t want to look. Looking at a hurt child is too much for them. But they don’t think about the child. I guess in ways that makes me feel upset.

It’s amazing the rollercoaster ride my story being out in the public has taken me on. On the flip side of this, I have gained so many supporters that I feel their heartfelt words. I feel their empathy and care. I thank them.

I’m not saying people have to read. I’m not saying people have to be pleased or whatever. I think where my feelings lie, is that I am a real person, this is my real story. Please don’t tell me you cant look at me. I’m ashamed enough.

I guess I should really say that this isn’t directed at anyone. So please no one take offense. I’m just rambling the random thoughts I have from time to time.