I never thought I wouldn’t want to write. That I would ever feel like I’m not even a proper writer anymore. My whole life, no matter what role I’ve played or job I’ve taken on, student, editor, teacher, any of it, I’ve always found a way to still keep that one part of me alive. Because it was always my saving grace. It was always my way to let out my anger or frustration or to distract myself from the positively mundane existence I was currently experiencing at the time. To write was to be who I truly am deep down at my core and now I feel like I’m losing myself. Does not writing mean I’m not a writer anymore? If I take a break, will I end up breaking from it indefinitely? These are the constant struggles I face within myself because, every time I gather an ounce of energy and motivation for my writing, there always seems to be some more pressing matter that gets in the way. Like doing the dishes. Or folding laundry. Or cleaning the house. Grocery shopping. Lesson planning. By the time I’ve done all these “grown up” things, the only energy that remains is enough to get me to the beach and get me comatose. There is nothing left. And even if there is, it isn’t enough to stimulate my brain to get the creative juices flowing and leak out something brilliant. So instead, I just find other distractions to pass the free time that I do have. Watching T.V. Playing mindless iPad games. Reading someone else’s greatest accomplishments. Publishing someone else’s piece of literary genius. All of which are enjoyable but none of which get me closer to my realization of being a published author, a writer with a purpose. It terrifies me to know I’m slipping further and further away from myself. I’m scared to think one day I might just wake up and not even remember who that person is anymore.