In my author bio I talked about slaying the Dragon that stole my voice. I'm beginning to fear it isn't quite dead... it may just have moved out of sight.
I could blame it on the pandemic. I could blame it on my Dad becoming ill. I could blame it on all sorts of external factors, but the reality is that there's still a common factor. Me. How I react. How I relate. How I treat myself (or mistreat myself) when stress is high.
One of the largest battles against my Dragon last year was for time. Time for me. Time to breathe and dream. As an author, time is my most precious commodity because that's where my core self lives - and I can't create without her. As this strange year matches inexorably forward, in finding myself looking out at an Autumn I don't know and wondering if I even had the chance to meet Spring and Summer. My voice has disappeared again and I have failed to greet them, although this time I can feel the desire to speak still echo inside me.
It's made me wonder how much of the Dragon has been my own subconscious tendency to be busy. How much of the Dragon has been my own Shadow? Look after everyone else. Make sure others are growing. Make sure my loved ones are doing okay. Make sure my friends have support. Only pay attention to the concerns of others so that I am well distracted from my own need to express pain. Express joy. Express fear. Express excitement. Express loneliness.
Fighting my Dragon used to be easier. Now that it's being sneaky, this feels more like shadow boxing.