In the quiet corners of my mornings, where the first rays of sun promise a new beginning, I sit with my deepest fear—the fear of being unheard, of my words dissipating into the vastness of an indifferent world. For years, I navigated the treacherous paths of the mental health system with my son Dustin, learning that silence was not just a refuge but a necessity. Speaking up meant facing judgment, bearing the brunt of misplaced blame, and enduring the abandonment of those who found our reality too burdensome.
This silence has roots that stretch far back to my youth. At 16, an incident taught me the harshest lesson about silence. An adult discovered my journals—my private sanctuary where I poured out my fears and dreams. The confrontation that followed was a turning point. Faced with threats against of what would happen to those I loved; I was coerced into declaring my written words false. In a moment of desperation, I tore up my journals, vowing to never write down my inner world again. With those torn pages, I lost a part of myself too—an innocent creativity that had once been a source of solace and expression. This event would chase me into a silence that lasted decades, silencing the voice of a girl who once dreamed of being heard.
My journey into the profession of crisis intervention only deepened my conviction. As a Licensed Professional Counselor, I witnessed countless souls, voiceless and desperate, shuffled through a system too overwhelmed to offer more than temporary fixes—medication, hospitalization, but rarely understanding or real solutions. This systemic indifference mirrored my own experiences; when you learn that your voice can't change your child's suffering, you internalize a profound sense of helplessness.
As I embarked on the raw and rugged terrain of grief following the loss of my son, I attempted to reach out, to share the suffocating weight of my sorrow. But time, as they say, waits for no one. The patience of the world around me thinned; people decided it was time for me to move on. My words, once again, felt like whispers lost in the wind.
Today, I face these fears by laying them bare on this blog. There's a paralyzing terror in sharing these words, a haunting question that echoes with each sentence I write: Am I doing this for nothing? Will these words ever find their way to someone who needs to hear them? Will my experiences, my pain, my lessons learned in the darkest of times, resonate with anyone?
Yet, despite these fears, I find the strength to continue. Each day I choose to write is a victory against the silence that once seemed my only safety. It’s a rebellion against the invisibility that threatened to define my existence. Writing becomes not just an act of self-expression but a beacon of hope—perhaps today is the day my voice will bridge the gap between solitude and solidarity.
To those who stumble upon these words, know that they are more than mere reflections. They are an invitation to listen, to understand, and to connect. They are a testament to the resilience of the human spirit, crafted by hands that have been weathered by loss but driven by an unyielding desire to make a difference.
So here I stand, or rather, here I write, at the intersection of fear and hope. With each word, I chip away at the vast silence, hoping to reach someone, anyone. And while the fear of being unheard never truly fades, the act of writing itself reassures me that my voice matters. That perhaps, through these shared experiences, we can all find a bit of solace and understanding.
And so, I will continue to write. Because today, like every day, is a new opportunity to be heard, to share, and perhaps, to heal. Each word I write is a step towards a future where our stories intertwine, lifting us out of isolation into a shared journey of growth and understanding. Here's to the power of words and the hope that they bring. Here's to being heard, one story at a time.
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