That time you told

The sound produced in your larynx and uttered through the mouth. The range of pitch or tone with which you sing. Expression in words. An uttering with resonance of the vocal cords.

 Voice.

Your voice.

Use it, they said. Don’t be afraid. You are powerful and mighty, and this voice is your weapon. Tell all of your worries, your pain, your anger. Tell it. Use it. Don’t be silent.

Because even when it happened, you were not silent.

Even through the pain, through the confusion, through the tears, you whimpered. It was small and caught in your throat, but audible nonetheless.

The complete absence of sound. That is what silence is.

You were not silent.

You are not silent.

Think about what you want to say—what you need to say. What happened, and how that made you feel; how you feel about it now.

Say it, write it, tell it.

Twelve years. Today marks twelve years since that whimper passed through your lips.

Eleven years and eleven months since you found your voice, and uttered the story to someone you thought was a friend. It has been nine years and seven months since you first wrote your story down. Since you first penciled in courage, and questioned the burden of blame.

It took six years. Six years for you to write the story where the main character isn’t guilty, where she did nothing wrong.

Three years ago she saw something in herself. That character of yours, she found hope. Hope in the reflection of her eyes as she looked at herself in the mirror, half of a laugh squeaking out audibly into the empty room around her.

Then, eight months ago you wrote the word survive. You wrote it and you believed it. She is a survivor, that character of yours. Her story keeps changing, progressing, growing, and no matter how many times you send her to hell, she keeps coming back—fresh on the page, ready to live it again, survive it again, find hope again.

Today marks twelve years since that whimper passed through your lips.

Today you do not misplace blame. You do not carry guilt, or question if she deserved it—that character of yours, you. Twelve years you and her survived, found hope.

For twelve years you were not silent.

You were not silent.

You are not silent.

Today you have your voice.

Use it, they said. Don’t be afraid. You are powerful and mighty, and this voice is your weapon. Tell all of your worries, your pain, your anger. Tell it. Use it. Don’t be silent.

Today, and every day, I have a voice.