There’s a book inside me trying to get out. It’s called I was beaten more days than not. It’s called the beatings are still with me. It’s called I love you and I’m smiling but my heart is crying inside. Screaming in pain. The book is fighting with fear. Fear was my best friend. Fear kept me alive. But now fear is keeping the book inside and it’s going to kill me if it doesn’t get out. It’s going to grow and eat me like cancer. Or give me actual cancer. The book wants to be heard. The book is me. It’s all the ages I was when Fear was keeping me alive. Or hope. Because I think Hope might be Fear’s cousin. Not that I understand family or anything. Family, after all, is what Fear and Hope tried to save me from for all those years. In all those dark moments. You know, the moments when you’re told by the people who brought you into this world that you are disgusting to your core. That they never actually wanted you. That you’re always on the verge of wrath and judgement. God is looking at you and He wants to vomit. All that lovely, nurturing honesty that builds loving and confident members of society. I lived in the dark for years after I left the darkness. I took it with me. It lived on in my barely breathing soul. I pretended to be a living person. I even fooled myself for a time. But a living darkness like mine cannot be tricked into dying. It knows it’s alive. And when my careful charade of life was struck a blow by another version of what first tried to end me, the darkness began to weep. It made myself heard. All the me’s had found their voice. And gave it to the pain. The vibrations cracked my shell and I hatched. I was reborn. As a newborn, yet less helpless than before. The metamorphosis startled me. It knocked my back off my feet. I tentatively thanked the fear for keeping me alive, and handed the keys to hope instead with trembling hands. I can see colors I didn’t before. I can hear sounds I was deaf to. I can feel the life. I can see it teeming all around me. In its glory and agony. Sometimes I break again from the weight of it. The darkness is still with me. Some days it rides shotgun. Some days I can call it an Uber. Other days it stuffs me in a trunk and I’m not sure where we’re going. But then I hatch again. Another part of me is born and freed to begin again. Quivering with possibility and apprehension. Most do not welcome my darkness. Very few can accept the constant rebirth. I am too much for many and not enough for nearly all. But there is a book inside me, fighting with fear to get out. And maybe when Fear and Hope and Me can walk into the light together, I will feel heard. And the pain will settle to a dull roar. Which is preferable to the constant ringing in my head.