I’m waist high into writing an emotional piece that manifests daily into a throat-clenching lump in my throat. I’m not a crier, but I’m one more childhood angst away from becoming one.
Writing, remembering experiences and crafting them into tangible words, revives the Frankenstein’s of our youth, bringing them back to life when we thought they were dead.
Painful experiences don’t rest easy. They lurk. They yearn for resolution. They crave healing. They want, above all, to be free.
We all have monsters from our childhood. But my monsters are not your monsters. To you, they might not be monsters at all. Whatever they are, I’m glad I’m working to set them free.