I can’t stop talking about all the things I’m not supposed to talk about. I read an article by Eleni Pinnow. She lost her sister, Aletha, to suicide. Eleni’s grief howled through her words, and one statement struck me and never left—“the reason depression and suicide are so pervasive is that we don’t know how to talk about them”. I want to talk about them. I want to talk about all the things my mind tells me not to and not feel bad about it.
I can’t stop talking now. I can’t stop writing. The words gush from every part of me. My words are tireless fingers untangling everything that’s knotted. Where words struggle to reach, I feel a compulsion to place sound there. I think I feel that if I can give my discomfort a voice, it will be less apt to linger.
Whether it’s my mental health, my body, my eating disorders, sex, growing up, my struggles and triumphs—I don’t feel bad talking about it. Exposed, yes. I question if I am sharing cherished information with an undeserving audience. Closure isn’t my goal. It isn’t validation either. I don’t aim to be heard or achieve any degree of fame. It is enough to form my voice in the world and know I’ve dared my words to exist. I want to say all the things I’ve never heard said before. I don’t regard my work as esoteric or profound. Rather, we’ve been socially programmed to suppress these things, and I want them to surface.