“Tell me how did you get through it?” She inquired me with curious eyes. I sunk deeper into my seat, retreating further into myself. My thoughts began to haunt me, as I watched the past memories corrupt my mind. There were memories of cutting my dolls hair off and hanging them naked in my closet after the incident with the neighborhood boy. There were Memories of being barricaded in my room afraid to step afoot outside where I instantly became their prey. Remembering how they feed on my insecurities. That was the year I learned to love the rain. Memories of being confused. Missing my father, who at the time was in the navy and having a mother who was overworked with the burdens life placed upon her shoulders and stressed with memories of her own...So many memories so many monsters.

The only thing that passed was time not words. My hesitation only prolonged the uncomfortable silence in the room. Still moved from her question, I began to think of some logical response. How did I get through it? I thought to myself.

“I don’t know,” were the only words I could utter. I desperately wished for some sort of an escape. I didn’t want to unleash the ghosts and ghouls I’ve successfully buried deep within. It has been said by many that time heals wounds. I disagree. Those who are living with trauma have experienced the prolonged effects of phantom pain. The memories will always be there. The brain only protects itself from the trauma by numbing the pain, and like old pictures that are buried inside a box and are abandoned in the crawlspace, or are left in the back of your closet. You always make sure you shut the door and lock the key; shoving those memories that once disturbed you towards the back of your mind. It is only when something triggers the trauma, when your scars yet again become apparent. It is only then that you begin to realize that that box, that door has always been left slightly ajar. It was freshmen year when I stumbled across what is now my favorite quote.
It was spoken by August Wilson. He said, “Confront the dark parts of yourself, and work to banish them with illumination and forgiveness. Your willingness to wrestle with your demons will cause your angels to sing. Use the pain as fuel, as a reminder of your strength,” I found this quote in English class while I was working on a project. Since then, I’ve held onto this quote for four years now. It wasn’t until last year however I discovered the significance of why I’ve been in love with this quote for so long. I have gone through hell and back. All throughout my life writing was the only thing that has fully given me hope. It is my lifeline and it has helped me tremendously on my road to recovery. I don’t regret any of the demons that I’ve encountered. I’m grateful for it. Adversity, she helped me discover my passion for writing. She helped mold my identity.

I am a pencil pusher. For years, writing was what kept me sane through the struggles I’ve had to face in my past. It has been my voice when I felt as though I could not speak, and when I was alone, writing became my closest friend. It has given me chances to look deep within myself as well as question and observe the world around me. Many times I find myself answering some of my own troubling questions. One thing I’ve realized about myself through writing is just how strong my voice is. Without my pen, I become a mute; but with it, I can access parts of my mind I wouldn’t be able to if I were to speak out loud.

It has always been a dream of mine to one day become a published author and to fight for the “underdogs” in our society, perhaps even become well known. Fame however, has never been a part of that dream. If I am to be remembered, let it not be my name. Let it not be the color of my eyes nor the complexion of my face. Let it be my voice. I only want my voice and other’s stories to be heard. I know how it feels to be an underdog. Having been sexually molested, bullied for five years and feeling the effects from being the outcast for so long left me feeling voiceless and powerless. My junior year of high school was the hardest. I decided I could no longer stay silent and let my past control me.

That year I took control and began seeing a trauma therapist, there I was forced to face my monsters, my memories I had kept buried in some abandoned part of mind for years. At first, I thought the counseling was only making it worse. I felt worse. My therapist told me that that was a good thing, and that it was a normal part of the healing process. Counseling was like taking a dose of medicine. It tasted awful for that moment, but overtime it helped me tremendously. It was mainly my writing however that helped me realize I’m not voiceless.

The quietest people truly do have the loudest minds. Writing has always been my form of escape from my reality. My paper and pen is what gives me strength. My days mainly consist of racing thoughts and never ending wonders. Some nights, mostly over the summer, I’d end up falling asleep with a pen in my hand; only to rise with the sun to start writing again. Each time I write, I feel passionate and full of power, like a candle inside of me has been set aflame. While my pen dances upon the blank pages, I only gain momentum. I watch in satisfaction, at what once was a little flame transforms into a blazing fire that cannot be tamed. And so the ramblings of a pencil pusher continue.

How did I get through it? Looking back on it now, I know how I would respond to her question. I’ve learned to live to accept it and to be indifferent to it. Perhaps the box will always be slightly open. Perhaps the phantom pain will always resurface. I've just learned not to let the pain paralyze my spirit.