"Write." – Answering the Call to Survive

I'm lucky.

My mom instilled in me at a young age the value of documenting my life.

"I wish I had more art from when I was young ... to remember what I was thinking, and feeling, and doing."

I recall her lamenting.

In a pink and white shoebox discretely labeled "Lilly's Treasures", I have a lot to remember.

There are journals half filled with my writings – lists, poems, daily entries.

I look at these pages and try to imagine my little hand writing those words. Most I can't.

But one page stands out amongst the rest.

Even now, I read this poem from my eight-year-old self, and the pain is visceral. I remember ...

I'm alone in my room, crying so hard I can't breathe.

The isolation from the world eating a hole in my heart.

A hole bursting with hurt.

No one to turn to. Nowhere to hide.

"Write."

I remember the call so vividly.

"Write."

So I did.

This is a repressed memory I uncovered last year.

I felt my only companion were these black pages.

I'm writing a memoir for a lot of reasons, but one is for her. For that sad little girl in my room.

I want her to know how good her life is now. That she doesn't have to hide anymore.

That she made it.

We made it.