The daily grind and suffering as a survivor has brought on many challenges. Being the largest to date has been my voice, I’ve never fully lost my ability to speak but how I spoke.
For years I would rage, Stuck like an animal in a cage.
Angry at the world, my beliefs gone, my world had come undone, thinking how unfair, Taking years to truly believe being alive was a prayer.
In isolation and doped up with hardcore medication. I was bitter, lost, and had given up.
Never at a loss of something to say, my heart bleeding from ache, I decided to turn a pencil to a page. My voice was never lost it was simply tucked away.
Writing began to help me realize I was alive for a reason, Piece by piece I would jot down thoughts, some happy, sad, and the ones I had forgot.
I discovered THIS use of words helped me to believe the world was not out to get me, These words on paper were turning into a story or poetry.
Finding this discovery has been the best medication for me on my journey, If I can touch one person with what I write, To relate, not feel so alone, or understand the fight.
This gives me hope and my life some purpose. My life will never be the same, but it is far from over, when I look at now I’ve made some strides. In this journal I hold my voice is alive.