Pieces

Who am I to be writing?

Who am I to take time away from my family to pour my heart onto a virtual page, because it feels like my soul (or something) needs that release? Why do I deserve the resulting pleasure or relief, or the sense of accomplishment from doing the work of writing?

Does the married mom of a young child really need to be a whole person, the kind who has time to devote to hobbies? My mind is already fractured a hundred ways by demands and pressures. Might as well stay in pieces and try to divvy out portions among a family that deserves my attention. The fragments of myself feel meager but they usually do the job.

Until one day when it suddenly feels like everything is failing. The pieces crumble in front of me, and I falter. Who am I to then turn away from the problem, turn inward, and write about my own pain?