I listen to choirs sing in Latin. Hymns. Requiems. Music written for kings, and for Mass, and for everyone. I listen, and I understand every word, even though I don’t understand a word. They reach a place deep inside of me. They resonate. Latin is the language my heart knows, even if my tongue does not.

I transcribe verses. Verse after verse. From the Bible. From poets who saw God. From people who see the good in the world that I have a hard time finding.

I write words. On my skin. On paper. Anywhere. Everywhere. I write them over and over. I remind myself how to get through another day.

I laugh when I can. I talk to friends. There are people I cry to. People I scream with. People who know when to hold my hand, and people who know when to let me be alone.

I remind myself how scary it was to be twelve. How I never slept. How I stopped living because everything was terrifying. I tell myself I’m so much stronger now. I picture me at twelve curling up in my lap, I picture stroking her hair, and it gives me strengh.

I remember to eat, to drink water, to shower. I sleep. I make doctor’s appointments, and therapy appointments. Schedule an IUD for peace of mind. Schedule coffee dates, and lunches for something to look forward to.

I listen to podcasts about nothing, and download romance novels on audible. I color, and fill out my bullet journal. There is tea to drink, ice cream to eat, and family recipes to make for dinner.

Everyday I wake up.

Everyday I get out of bed.

I fight.

I stay alive.


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