I started "writing" when I was about 8. I still have some of those things - some were so sweet, not bad for an 8 year old. By the time I reached early adolescence I started writing about real things - the dark things. The child who never cried out loud, or spoke the anger began to write the tears and pain.
Now when I read what that girl wrote, her unshed tears creep down my face. I cry the tears she couldn't and I cry FOR her. I want to reach back in time and put my arms around her, take her in my arms and tell her she is safe. Tell her to cry, and shout, and tell her pain. Ah, that little girl...I want to tell her that she will survive it all. That she will grow up and eventually make peace with what she is feeling. That she will grow to be a strong and lovely woman who is truly loved and loves in return.
I want to read to her this poem that she wrote so many years later:
I'm getting to like this lady,
I'm getting to know her well.
I'm learning about her pain,
I listen to her speak of the past
and wonder where the strength came from.
And through her tears I can hear the joy.
I hear her laughter, her warmth, her love
and wonder how it comes to be.
I'm getting to admire this lady,
Giving for the love of giving
and getting back more than she realizes.
Probing deeper and facing devils
thought had not acknowledged.
And still the laughter, still the joy,
the hope, the wonder - never ceasing.
I'm learning to love this lady.
Her stubbornness, her fears,
her wisdom and naivete.
She confuses and bewilders,
hot and cold; hard and soft,
but always strong, always there.
I'm getting to respect this lady
for all she is, and was and will be.
This lady's me.