There’s something powerful about sharing our stories and speaking from experience. About releasing what, until moments ago, was an unspoken secret. To let it go. To take it out into the open and inspect it.
I have a story to be told. It’s one of pain and determination and fear and abuse and, at the time, love, though I have a hard time believing that now. It’s a story of being trapped, of being powerless in the worst way. A story of constant threat, of being used. It’s a story of trying to save someone who was trying to destroy me. It’s a story of hope destroyed, of humiliation and of wounds that just haven’t fully healed, and probably never will.
It’s a story that’s pivotal in my becoming who I am. It’s a story that shaped how I relate to others. It’s a story that, in some ways, moved my queerness from theoretical to actual.
I hope I can share that story one day, openly. But for now it’s too frightening, both to revisit those days in my heart and to open myself up to the barbs of those who will judge me for it.
It’s a story I don’t want anymore. It’s a story I want to let go.