What you don’t realise is, I don’t write these things for you in the first instance, although I share them with you later, I write them for myself. The real me tries to be the voice of reason among a thousand other voices that I know are all against me. These voices echo of things I have been taught, things I have heard, fears, judgements, worries, pit of the stomach shame and they release a paralysing drug into my bloodstream.
Writing is my true voice finding a way to be heard louder than all the rest. It won’t let me write down what is false.
My thoughts and feelings converse on these pages and somehow they work things out. I am not even privy to their understanding, for it is not in words, but they make peace and I can breathe again.