I’m not sure.
Writing is one of the greatest releases that I’ve found. I can pick up a pencil and write about anything—the color of the walls or a broken heart—it doesn’t matter; it’s always been so easy for me. Until, Thursday, my counselor said that it would be a great idea to write letters to the people who I’d like to say the most to. I’ve lost voice throughout my life and I want it back, so I have to learn how to speak again.
Being able to write letters to the people who have hurt me most would be an amazing release, I know. There is so much inside of me that I want to let out—I don’t know who I would start with. My mom, maybe? Or what would I say to my husband? There are a few people who have hurt me; I’d like to say something to them as well. But every time I pick up my pencil, I just stare at the paper and no words come to mind.
I write names; I erase them.
Where should I begin? Should I begin at birth? What if I don’t remember everything that they’ve done? What if I know that I’ve hurt them, too? I want to get it out and let it go—I’ll never share my words with them, I know that. I’ll burn the paper when I’m finished writing, so why can’t I just do it?
Maybe because I’m afraid. I’m afraid as soon as I get it out, as soon as I find my voice, I’m going to forgive them and myself. I’m going to move on and leave those broken pieces behind. I’m going to be forced to move on and start over. It probably sounds crazy, that I shouldn’t be afraid of that—I should welcome it, but really, once you admit the end, you are admitting failure, defeat, brokenness.
I never planned on failing.
I never wanted to be defeated.
I’m so afraid of being broken.
Maybe I can start with ... “I love you, I always did know how ... you just never made me feel safe.”
