I have written this blog dozens of times in my head. Each time, the words spill out, everything I want to say, all at once. The desperate need to share it all, yet I still haven’t found the right order to begin. So, with that, my reader, or no readers, let’s begin.

To me, this blog will be a personal and devastating art. Spilled paint buckets in a poorly lit room. Each bucket is bursting with cool‑toned greys and midnight shadows, each one touching and slowly curling around the other. The room is cold, with a creaking windowpane and the rain; the rain tapping against a single paneled window, whispering, let me in.

The paint stands alone; no one touches it, no one attempts to clean it up. It continues to drip mindlessly onto the floor. Some walk through it, tracing outlines of heels and boots to and from this mess. Those souls who have come and left me. The colors swirl around each footprint, twining long lines between each new layer of liquid. It’s pain, but most importantly, it’s real. 

I want to tell my story. My words are not for the sake of vanity or revenge, but words of hope, for survivors, and for those who are still surviving. The fear, however, is intense. 

As I type each sentence, I intend to be thoughtful. Methodical. But I know what I plan to share is dark. Traumatic. Raw stories told from the best of my recollection.

I commit to you, my reader, that I will include trigger warnings beforehand and allow you the opportunity to decide if these words are something you’re ready to step into. I do not embellish for the sake of having a pissing contest of having a better or worse life than others. The point is that I lived, and continue to do so. 

Sundays will be a day for the shadows.

Unbreakable,

SIS