Writing 101 – Day Thirteen: “Serial Killer II”

Day Thirteen – Serial Killer II:

* Today’s Prompt:  On day four, you wrote a post about losing something. Today, write about finding something.

* Today’s Twist:  Today’s twist: if you wrote day four’s post as the first in a series, use this one as the second installment — loosely defined.

In 2004 I was medically disabled from working as a registered nurse in the operating room. It was quite a blow to me because I loved my job. While I was working, I felt as though I was making a difference in the lives of my patients, and suddenly those feelings of satisfaction and accomplishment were being taken away from me. It was almost too much to bear. To say that I was depressed was an understatement.

Since my children were in school all day and my husband was at work, I was alone and lonely. The days stretched out before me and the hours seemed as though they were much longer in length than just sixty minutes. The fact that I was restricted to bed for the most part didn’t help matters any, and I had plenty of time to feel sorry for myself. It wasn’t long before depression settled over me like a blanket which covered every inch of my being.

My husband became quite concerned over the change in my personality. And it was he who became my savior.

“Cindy,” he said, “remember how you used to write stories back before the kids were born? You used to be really good at it. Maybe you should start writing again. It would give you something to do.”

I thought about what he said and I began to remember. The desire to the write was ignited once again and has burned writing 500brightly ever since.

I am so grateful to my husband for helping me to find my long-lost love for writing. Because of my nursing career and motherhood, I had forgotten all about her, but with the event of my disability, I now had the chance to nurture and care for her once more.

Writing has given me so much. I can tell my stories in my own way and not have to worry about what anyone else thinks. I can write how I feel at any given time and once I put my writing 200feelings down on paper, it’s over, done with, gone. When I write, I can be exactly who I am. I am compelled to write.

So now when I think about becoming disabled, I’m not as sad as I used to be. I still miss it, but not as much any more.

When I wrote my entry for Day Four, one of my readers made this comment: “Your honesty is refreshing. For some reason though, I feel as if your illness which forced you to be home, was really so you would have time to write and share hope & inspiration with others.” 

Maybe she was right.
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