When I got orders after a school to ship my fresh sailor self over to Italy, I was pretty excited. I didn’t understand, at all, the other women in my class that were upset over overseas duty who wanted to head straight back to their home state/city. Why join the Navy if you don’t want to travel and see the world?

Getting orders to the Cote d’Azur was like winning a prize to me. As soon as I crossed the brow of my ship sitting in those peacock-lush waters of the Mediterranean, I knew I was going to have a great time. Little did I know I would also find a husband. I didn’t join the Navy to fool around; as a matter of fact when I joined up it was after breaking the heart of a really nice guy and I’d decided to take a year at least to be celibate. I kept that self-imposed vow for a couple of months after getting to Italy. Most of my fellow shipmates were younger than me, so I was really discerning about who I dated. I met the guy that ended up being my life partner the month I got to the ship, but we were friends for a year before becoming lovers. Even our ship chaplain tried to get us together but we spent months dancing around each other. I didn’t intend to get pregnant and leave the service; my goals were much different and involved me going to OCS and getting a degree.

That sudden and resounding tick of my biological clock, when it suddenly went off, was undeniable. Realising I was in love with the person I chose to father that potential child was an eye-opener to me.

So I finally decided, after long wanting to, to finally follow my dream and become a writer. I’ve always been told I can’t do it. That “real adults” aren’t writers. That writers aren’t supportive of their families; they can’t be breadwinners. They can’t be productive members of society…blahblahblah. I’m sure most writers and artists have heard all that negative bullshit before. It’s been part of my psyche for so long, it’s become a major component of my mental illness. Eventually this blog will become lighter, and my writing will branch off into other genres: fiction is my main passion. But right now, my story is my muse. It is pouring out of me onto the canvas of the page like a Jackson Pollack painting. Globs and splashes of messy colour that make no apparent sense. I invite you to join me as I sort out the mess and turn it into something that does make sense.
This terrifies me. I am the Introvert. I do not share lightly. My heart is triphammering in my chest and my face is burning, but I am going to hit that publish button. It is a huge, huge world out there, and my voice is so tiny. But someone is listening. I hope my miniscule voice can be a light in the darkness for you.