When asked I tend to say woman, mother, writer – but that isn’t all of me, it’s just a quick flashcard of words people can understand and relate to.
I am a woman, yet that does not define me. I am a mother; I love my children, I adore watching them grow into useful and pleasant adults and will worry over them even when they have long left home. Yet again, that is not all of me.
I write. I don’t aim to be published, I write as a way of coping, a way of sharing. I enjoy finding the right words for each situation, discovering new words and means to describe my thoughts.
And within all the above, combined with many other things, there is me. Well, not just me.
There’s the ME who my children see, there’s the ME who my business friends see – all different MEs that I present to the world. Not, I hasten to add, in an attempt to confuse or mislead, but those MEs are a result of expected ideas of conformity.
There’s another ME who resides in my head. Where I can have imaginary conversations that I never would in real life. Where I can think thoughts never to be uttered. Where I can be whoever and wherever I want. Is that the ‘real’ ME? Who knows.
