Black on White
She twirled a curl around her finger then let it spring back into a tight spiral. Boing. Absentmindedly she twisted another curl and, in turn, let it bounce back as well. The computer screen in front of her was unrelentingly bright, the blinding whiteness unmarred by the typed, black eloquence of written words. Thoughts escaped her mind. She certainly couldn’t focus despite her love of writing and interest in the project. Her boss wanted her to create a blog – “What I Wish I Knew” – her perspective as a senior on her life freshman year. She was excited; the creation of the blog would both be fun and look amazing on her resume if she wanted to pursue any career or path involving writing in any form. But she just didn’t know what to write. Her boss had given her complete liberty. She could make this as personal as she wanted. Or vice versa. The choice was hers. She didn’t mind sharing her life; she had multiple blogs for various projects. But freshman year. Freshman year had certainly been quite an experience. She wasn’t sure if she was ready to share all that had happened that year. She hadn’t fully admitted all that had happened to herself. She hadn’t fully dealt with the abuse. She still struggled with issues, with the concept of being a survivor. She still blamed herself. The consequences of being abused were slowly becoming a reality. Shaping her life. She was now passionate about letting everyone know that each individual person is loved. Everyone has a voice; each person’s opinion and desires matter. Helping other victims of abuse was a life goal. But she didn’t know if she was ready to spill all of those details now. To share her story. But maybe now was the time. Maybe her story could touch and help others who read it – give them someone to relate to so that they wouldn’t feel alone like she did. Maybe it was time to face her past. After all, it left a trace that affected her present, which would affect her future. With another twist of her hand, she twirled her hair back out of her face and began to type. The blank page soon began to fill with words that only she could write. Her unwritten story was only hers to tell.
