Memouries released, bubbling to the surface where they burst in wave after wave of grey-on-grey pain. Embarrassment. Remorse. Acid burning the back of my throat, carried up from the pit where the memouries had lain buried.

But today, I am not sad. I will not grieve over the murder of my innocence. Not today. Today, I embrace the sorrow and loss. I experience you in the past. You are from another time -- a time I tried so very hard to forget -- and though your face is bitterly familiar, I will not allow you to hurt me today.

Yes, I am broken. I try desperately to hold myself together with spit and pixie dust. I fight to accept and understand. Who I am. What I've done. What has been done to me. And I won't let you take that away from me. I will write my book and see it published. Though my voice cracks from disuse, I will be heard.

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