A book's introduction is closely related to the content of the book itself. Usually found in nonfiction work, the introduction may summarize the main argument presented in the rest of the story, define any important terms, or offer background information.
Introduction (noun): the act of introducing something.
There is only one way I can imagine introducing this book and that is by diving head first, taking you inside the darkness that perpetuated my own mind and threatened to take my life. There is only one story, one scene, one moment where or when this story begins, but despite having this tidbit of clarity, jumping in and actually beginning remains the one thing I absolutely refuse to do.
To leap head first into my own demise doesn’t seem wise. I am not sure if I am afraid of what else I might uncover or if my own apprehension stems from a lack of understanding about how to convert this one particular scene into words or if I am afraid to give this truly horrible time meaning, but something is very clearly blocking me, begging me to retreat.
And yet, I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that this is my work. This is the one thing I must toss and turn and ponder in my own head, again and again and again. There is one scene in particular that haunts my mind, that continues to reach out to me, that seems to be encouraging me to put words onto the page. To meet that lost and afraid past version of me, to give her a voice, about this I seem to have no choice. Wrestling this one story onto the page will ultimately pave the way.
A decade ago, I found myself wrapped in a darkness I couldn’t quite comprehend, a darkness that surrounded me so completely, a darkness that threatened to suffocate me entirely. And this darkness, while unbearable at the time, eventually became my guiding light. Somehow a season upon which I could barely breathe, became the thing that ultimately saved me.
Darkness (noun): the partial or total absence of light; a situation in which there is little or no light.
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It is pitch black and I sit rocking back and forth, back and forth. Nursing my young son night after night, but with each gentle suck, I seem to drift further and further away from myself. Each nurturing sip that sustains him seems to take something from me. The more he grows, the less of me remains. My own inner well does not seem to be enough for both of us.
I try to push forward, to barrel through life in the same way my nearly 10 pound son miraculously made his way through the birth canal, convinced that if I can just outrun the darkness, things might somehow be okay.
But there is no escape.
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