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    I Am The Lock, I Am The Key
    I Am The Lock, I Am The Key
    I Am The Lock, I Am The Key
    Ebook67 pages58 minutes

    I Am The Lock, I Am The Key

    By Diana Murdock

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    About this ebook

    A single mother's discovery of who she is and who she is not, never had been and never will be... Her very personal insight on her past, present, and future, on her children, her ex, and those around her. And the realization that she is more than okay with who she really is.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherDiana Murdock
    Release dateSep 18, 2015
    ISBN9788893150576
    I Am The Lock, I Am The Key
    Author

    Diana Murdock

    Writer of contemporary and YA paranormal, with enough energy to write, raise two boys, run, and dream.

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      Book preview

      I Am The Lock, I Am The Key - Diana Murdock

      I AM THE LOCK...

      ... I AM THE KEY

      ––––––––

      A collection by Diana Murdock

      ––––––––

      All Rights Reserved

      Copyright © 2012 Diana Murdock

      This book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in whole or in part by any means, including graphic electronic, or mechanical without the express written consent of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.  Your support of author rights is appreciated.

      TABLE OF CONTENTS

      WHEN I FOUND ME, I FOUND MY MUSE

      A SIGH...THE PERIOD AT THE END OF MY THOUGHT

      WHEN SAVING THEM IS NO LONGER AN OPTION

      THE DAY I BECAME A WRITER

      MY LIFE IS ONE BIG –ISH

      THE BLAME GAME – HUMAN NATURE OR JUST AN EXCUSE?

      IT'S MORE THAN A HUG...IT'S LIFE

      PRISONER OF MY PAST

      TO FORGIVE AND FORGET - EASIER SAID THAN DONE

      I AM NOW, TRULY, AN ORPHAN

      IT SOUNDS AS BAD AS IT FEELS

      THE NEW TRADITION

      WHY SHOULD WE GIVE THANKS ONLY ON THANKSGIVING?

      MY THREE-STRIKE RULE - THE ONE TIME I BROKE IT

      HEY!  CAN YOU LET ME IN?  IT'S KIND OF COLD OUT HERE!

      WHO IS THE BETTER HALF?  ME OR ME?

      A NASTY THAT CAN’T BE CURED WITH PENICILLIN

      OKAY, I GIVE UP

      FENG SHUI – IT’S NOT JUST FOR ROOMS ANYMORE

      A MAN'S ROLE IN A WOMAN'S WORLD

      PLEASE DON’T CLOSE YOUR EYES, BECAUSE I CAN’T SEE YOUR SOUL

      CHANGE DOESN'T HAVE TO BE PAINFUL

      AN OPEN LETTER TO MY SON

      PROMISES, PROMISES, PROMISES...

      GIRL POWER - TOTALLY REAL, TOTALLY RAW

      WHEN I FOUND ME, I FOUND MY MUSE

      What? His eyebrows shot up as he leaned toward me just a little. Twenty years?

      He blinked once. Then twice.

      My jaw went slack, realizing what I had just revealed.

      Then he sat back hard in his chair, shaking his head. "You need to be kissed. You need to be kissed."

      I noticed he wasn’t offering his services to remedy the situation. He merely stared, digesting my confession.

      Two decades is a long time to go without being kissed. I mean, really kissed. I was embarrassed, wondering if I was even capable of kissing that way again. I swiped at a tear that started to form, hoping he didn’t notice.

      So this was it. This is what I had become. A closed-off, passionless excuse of a woman. How could I have let it get to this point? For that matter, at exactly what point did it get to this point? Did my softer edges sharpen during those first years of raising my children when laundry, cleaning, and cooking, had to fit somewhere between the hours of my day job? Maybe it was during the years after that when I took on the additional roles of taxi driver, gardener, and all around super mom.

      Sexy lingerie was shoved aside to make room for baggy t-shirts and sweat pants. Practical shoes took the place of fun, strappy sandals. No one knew how long my hair really was since it spent most days tucked up underneath a baseball cap, mainly to hide the fact that I hadn’t had a chance to touch up the roots.

      Somewhere between the I do and the I don’t want to do this anymore, I had lost myself. I lost the ability to tilt my face to the sun and soak in all of its goodness. I lost my creativity and the ability to laugh. Not that I didn’t have the opportunities - I just didn’t have the energy for it.

      Worst of all, I had forgotten to write, something I had done since I was a little girl. My dream journal was buried under stacks of paper and magazines, never experiencing the touch of a pen to its pages - because I had forgotten to dream.

      And like anything in this world, if it is neglected, it will die.

      And die I did. A thousand times.

      On the outside I was Wonder Woman and Martha Stewart rolled into one. I wanted to be that person. I wanted to be the perfect wife and mother. I tried. I tried really hard. Books on how to knit and sew and quilt and make candles for Christmas lined the shelves. Cookbooks for pasta, vegetables, barbecuing, and even sushi were lined up neatly in the kitchen. Playing at the park or going to the beach were regular activities.

      I deceived them, all of them. How do you do it? I was often asked. I would just shrug and smile. If I were to answer them, I would have said, Miserably. But I never said a word.

      I may have fooled them, but I didn’t fool me. I knew that by not being who I really was, by not being filled with my own joy, I had nothing to offer. I

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