Sometimes I think that if people saw the inside of my notebooks — my real ones — they’d take one look — they wouldn’t even have to read them, just take a look — and they’d see just how confused and desperate and scared and crazy I am, they’d lock me in a room, sit me down, and scream at me until I finally just broke and let it all go, because they’d be so scared of what might happen if someone didn’t hear what they know I need to say.
And they’d scream because they know that as long as I can stay calm, I can shut up, and as long as I’m just just scared or numb or sad, I’ll either stay quiet, or not be able to find any words, any words at all; only when I’m angry with someone I really trust and know cares about me could I ever find both the courage and the words to say all the things that I need to.
Maybe if they saw the things I write. Maybe if they saw how I write them. Maybe they’d scream and never stop until they fixed me. Maybe.
I wish they would.