Dedications:
To every person of any age who made time for their inner child.
And to those who didn't, you’re just like me.
Dedicated to myself.
One day in 2023, I woke up and looked over at my pile of papers. I had so many unfinished stories that I’d put aside in favor of sticking my head up the rectums of my elders to get approval. I’d somehow convinced myself that if they liked me, I was happy, and that their happiness was my only purpose in this life.
It took me a while to acknowledge the fears that I’d accumulated over the years, but when it came down to it, the thing I feared most was coming into this world, living, and dying nothing more than somebody’s underappreciated daughter. Someone’s cranky grandmother who never believed in her own dreams enough to care about her grandchildren’s.
Picking up a pencil was the hardest part. Because sometimes you can’t do for yourself what you do for others, even though you know nobody is there to do it for you. There’s a strange sense of pride you gain when you watch others give up on their families, knowing you gave everything for yours.
I lived off of that pride instead of water and food, and expected my body to stay nourished.
I love the fact that this book was originally intended to be dedicated to the man that I dedicated the rest of my life to, my father, but I just had to let myself have this one thing.
So… Some Kind Of Maybe happened. I planned nothing, I didn’t even try to make it any better than a therapy journal, I just saw it. And it was good.
