Having worked on my book for 3 years, outlining my experiences as they happened and leaving no stone un-turned, I am still left with a sense of foreboding.
I didn’t get my chance to have my say on my disability and the hardships I’ve endured. I could write another book putting a different slant on my experiences, and I would still have the same foreboding. I write about my experiences, so that I may have acceptance, but closure is something I will never have.
We all have something that we deal with, and yes, we don’t go to school to be a parent, or understand how we work through our issues enough to help our children, but accepting responsibility and wanting to, is the first step.
As a child how do you reconcile those close not caring enough to give you the tools you need to be able to function in your own normal. As others turns the pages of my book, it becomes an insightful account of a life lived, an understanding of that life, and a motivational guide on how each of us can become better people through our experiences.
As the author of the book, I turn the pages and the sense of foreboding is clear. There are two things missing. An acceptance, and responsibility from others that any wrong has been done here, therefore I have no closure.