Words are pouring out.
Sentences come together, but then I stop.
It’s so clear in my head, what I want to say, to you, to so many of you.
I know what the point is, and it sounds so beautiful in my mind.
But it doesn’t come together when I try to share it with anyone but my inner thoughts.
What I want to write is a love letter to the last 23 years.
Fear has to be what’s stopping me.
And the most terrifying thing is that fear is who I think I’m beginning to conquer.
All the walls feel like they’re slowly falling down. It’s been the most freeing part of my entire life. Yet I’m scared to share with you how it’s changed every moment.
How you’ve changed my life.
How the loneliest I’ve ever felt was actually at a point when I had the biggest crowd cheering for me.
I’m not scared to say that losing one of the loves of my life made colors brighter and the sun warmer. I’m not scared to tell you that every time I shouted how happy I was, I was really trying to convince myself that the happiness was pure. The truths of my life are coming to light with the lowering of these terribly high walls.
So why can’t I admit to the people that brought them down how much I needed their help?
Friends and lovers who were there holding the walls in place, protecting me from things I thought would hurt, and every person I just let in who knocked down the first few bricks.
I am raw, gutted, finally feeling what I’ve told people to feel my whole life.
Freeing myself of things I had no idea were so limiting.
I want to write a love letter to the past 23 years and the letters that have formed above this very sentence are what needed to be read for the love to be heard.
The walls are coming down and I’m finally finding me, but I’m so scared of every part of who I was, all the inches I’ve yet to recover and the traits that still need to be found.
What I want you to know is clear.
I have needed you.