SOS

For years, I held visible positions where I couldn’t ask for help. Admitting I needed help equated to job loss. Without a job, I didn’t have income. Without income, I couldn’t keep a roof over my head. I didn’t have siblings or a husband to rely on. In the place of a mother and a father - were disturbed people.

In 2021, I decided to take a break from the rat race. I was rotund, dizzy, in pain, and had questions. I needed to take time to answer the questions I had been avoiding.

Why had I been single for so long?
Why did I feel like my voice was childlike?
Why was I taking so many medications?

Unbeknownst to me, I had a lifetime of trauma to unpack. Years of “I’m fine” had me anything but. The help from doctors wasn’t helping fast enough. I was falling through the surface.

I started writing because I was lost. I needed a compass to navigate a storm. I felt like I was on an island, utterly misunderstood. I needed to hear that I wasn’t alone - even if my echo was the only voice I heard back. Maybe you do, too. Writing helped me create a handbook for myself, and maybe my words will resonate with another. Sometimes, the stories we search for are the ones we write. Consider this a commonality: a hand to hold across an unknown abyss.