It’s easy to fall back into my “I don’t have anything important” to say cycles whenever I have writer’s block. And when I start with that there’s no stopping the avalanche of self-pitying immediately followed by the self-loathing. And so it goes, for weeks or months or years, where suddenly I have nothing to say. I doubt my every thought and get paranoid about my own moves, my own friends or family. Then, when I’m confronted, I just have nothing to fucking say. Nothing except I’m sorry or I wish I was different.

Since we’ve been back home we’ve been busy packing and resting. Busy learning the importance of your own calm, steady breaths; learning to appreciate the time that we give to ourselves for work or for leisure, learning to be okay with sleeping in until noon because, fuck, life is hard. Life is hard and vacation pictures in Alaska don’t take that away. Life is hard and then on top of that we have to fucking condition ourselves into accepting and being okay with life being hard even though we don’t have cancer, even though we have food on the table, being okay with life being hard even though others have it so much harder. Life is hard and then you also have to validate your own emotions about how hard it is, otherwise is avalanches and bottles up and consumes you until what was simply “hard” becomes damn near impossible and suddenly you’re drowning in a fucking cup of water.

Life is probably, more than likely, not going to get any easier. But you know what? Last night I thought about a million different things when I wasn’t sleeping. Last night I thought about my childhood, I thought about the things I have said, and the things that I have done. I thought about how many razors I spewed out of my tongue not caring who I cut in the process because I was so blinded and hurt by my own pain.

And then, I forgave myself.

I went back in time and gave 4 year old me a big fucking hug and I promised her from here on out no one will EVER hurt her. Lie to her, cause her pain, deceit her. Never again would I put myself through the suffering of being a shitty fucking person and not understanding that I was causing myself the biggest misery. Never again will I allow myself to think that my words aren’t important, that my secrets can’t be spoken. That my words don’t fucking matter. Because my God, if I have learned anything about this whole life thing so far is that the only person that can make it matter is me.

I can’t change the things that have been done to me, and I can’t change the things I have done because of them. But I can give those things a voice. I can give them meaning, I can scream it or cry it out, I can let these words flow in me, through me, and then right back fucking out. I can make sure that even if I don’t solve world hunger or end poverty, even if I’m not an everyday pleasantry, I can make fucking sure that I am never a direct product of the crap that surrounds me.

I can share a sincere hug, I can provide warm and honest friendship, I can give untainted, unconditional, unspoken love. Because unspoken doesn’t mean it never existed, it doesn’t mean it never mattered.

So here’s to the things we can’t say; to the secrets we keep from ourselves. To the truths that are too ugly to shed light on, and to the demons so vile and fucked up they scare even the most holy of us. May your words give you power over your truths, may your love be strong enough to rewrite them.

So mote it be.