For every time that I’ve put down the pen, I’ve picked it up again.
However loud the voices in my head asking me, ‘How many times has this been said before,’ there is always one that answers, quietly but surely, ‘Not enough.’ As long as there is pain, there is something to be spoken, shared, and felt– deeply.
However simple it might seem to dismiss my past as another lifetime and live as a new woman, fresh and unblemished by the world, it is infeasible. In reality I am the same person– altered by growth and experience, to be sure– but in times of stress those old wounds resurface. What wounds? Well, there is nothing dramatic about feeling unloved and worthless, but those feelings create a cancer in our souls nonetheless. They leave us sub-human and half dead. So until I can understand and accept what I was and what I am, there is a part of me still lifeless.
So I’ll speak whatever needs to be said about my life, then and now.
Whether my writing is good or not is not really my business. Whether others are able to get something out of it is not really my concern. People are free to do with my stories as they are free to do with their own lives: poke and prod at it from afar, or jump into the thick of it and find some beauty in the mess.
Sure, silence has always been easier, and also never been my style. Words are more than strips of Listerine, and meant for more than melting away on slack tongues.