I have hurt myself for the last time. A part of me is sad to see it go, a greater part of shaking with the newness of this freedom. I had tried for so long to be good. Only to realize that there is no good to achieve.

I sat on my front step with a No. 27 cigarette in my hand, blowing out hatred, breathing in a newness for life, for self. A compassion filling me. A desperate longing to believe that freedom is mine for the taking.

I am mesermized by this tingling passing through and through me. What do I do with this, with me, with my life? Where do I go now that I have walked away from years of suffering, self-hatred, punishment of every kind, of every hue?

I am stumbling past incoherent voices urging me onward. Saying last rites to the places I have been, beckoning to windows torn open wide. Hands shaking, it's so new, so close, yet so far beyond where I thought I could ever be.

I faced my abusers. I have told them no for the last time. My voice is finally my own, however coarse from the many tales I have told, all painfully true. It's the truth that spurns me forward. It's the possibilities that now leave me trembling. Where to go from this place? Nothing to run from anymore. Stumbling into a room blinded by hope.

Nov

This is so powerful. Your voice is powerful, too.