lizabethjoy

Withering on the Vine,
Young Me, a chronic people please-er, a helper, a why don’t they like me type. Me, a female fighter against the injustice of others. Me, a defender of the souls beaten down by Life. Me, A Social Worker by degree, a Wife by default, a Mother by desire. Me, a woman whose insides were clogged with crud, a woman whose self-esteem laid dormant in the hands of others.
Young got old.
Me, a woman who was faced with the third and final curtain of life. Me, a woman who was told one day that what she had thought to be real,really was not. Me, a woman who finally ran from a man after three decades of marriage. Me, an older woman who gave away all of the so called necessary possessions and joined a big yellow dog for a run on the road to anywhere. Me, a woman unclogged, a woman who, late in life, discovered the writer inside. Me, an older woman whose time to shine had finally arrived.
Blossom time.