Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

William Ernest Henley



Hello. My name is Jordan. I’ve been thinking of starting a blog for some time now. I have several close friends who blog. Honestly, I believe I’ve been a bit scared to blog. Not scared of what I may say, or what you may read, but scared of what I may have to face.

I kept several diaries when I was younger. They never lasted. I’d write in one for a few weeks & begin to feel comfort & relief & then I’d give it up. My diaries were filled with secrets, fears, passions, theories, opinions galore, just as any girl’s diary should be. My Mother always read them. No matter how I hid that damn diary, she’d ransack my bedroom until she found it. Then I would get attacked because of my words. My thoughts, opinions, feelings, they were all wrong. I was wrong for writing them, but especially for thinking them. Since I was wrong, the next step for my Mother was to make sure I knew what she thought of what she’d read. In her eyes I was always stupid, I was always dirty, I never loved her as much as I loved my father. So, beginning at a very young age, she ruined my own words for me. I no longer believed in their value. I no longer believed in writing it all down. It hurt to do so.

Honestly, it still hurts, all of it. Furthermore, I don’t feel like I’m healing. I feel like I’m whining. What may be extreme or traumatic to counselors, therapists, & psychiatrists, feels like weakness to me. Perhaps this is because I have a tough-as-nails football coach for a father, or because whenever I started crying as a child my mother would laugh & just beat me harder. That just dawned on me actually. I had forgotten that she would laugh when I cried. Perhaps I’ll uncover a wealth of information by writing it all down. That’s the most terrifying thing of all.

The trouble is not who I’ve been, it’s who I will be. I feel that there are wheels set in motion at this very moment, fueling all of this. I feel as though there is a light at the end of the tunnel, but I’ve no idea where I will be when I come through. I don’t want to remember. I don’t want to face it all. I just want it to go away. I want to feel better. I want to feel happy & safe & loved. But I don’t. I feel alone. I feel scared & alone. The only way to get past this is to go through it all again. Re-living it all, that’s worse that living it. I’ve survived by blocking it all out. The idea of letting it all go feels enormous. It has become this huge tidal wave of history & emotion that I feel will drown me. I know it will drown me. The person I am now is not the person I will be at the end of this. I’ll come out of the sea reborn.