Life is interesting, weird, horrible, lonely, miserable, exciting, scary, delicious, happy, sad, upsetting, depressing, manic-inducing craziness. I sit here and try to write, only to find the words refuse to come, and while I pretend to wonder why, the truth is I know why. I know exactly why I don't find pleasure in my words anymore.

There was an incident a while back that ended with me feeling like pieces of my soul had been ripped out. It was back when I was in that hellhole of a prison in Florida, living with my owners, my so-called friends.

Back then the only thing keeping me alive was my writing. I had a spiral notebook filled with stories, poems, little pieces of artwork, and many, many words of anger, depression, angst, sadness, fear and suicidal thoughts. Writing out the things I thought and was not able to say - not only because I was not allowed to, but also from fear - kept me from taking the plunge that would end my life. I can honestly say that that spiral notebook was my most important possession at the time. I put my heart and soul, my energy, time, and emotions into those words on those pages; and I would have burned it before I let anyone, much less the people I was living with, even look at it.

A few weeks before I finally found the courage to escape that place I found this precious thing in a place I had not put it the night before. It was empty. Every single page that had even a single word on it had been ripped out of my notebook, and along with them were the corresponding parts of my soul. I cried for three days. It wasn't just the fact that my innermost thoughts and fears had been read and disrespected, it was also the fact that any semblance of privacy and safety I had ever felt in that place had been torn away from me forcibly. I had noticed my things go missing for some time by then, and always assumed that I just misplaced them, and that mistaken assumption had been proven wrong. That was when I decided to leave, but even after leaving, no amount of anything has given me those lost pieces of soul left.

It may seem such a small thing to you, the reader, but that incident thoroughly traumatized me - especially when they threatened me with those same pages later on as I tried to leave, forcing me to stay there by shoving my own words in my face and telling me where they would take me. They told me I was psycho, that they were gonna force me into an institution if I did not come back, and all I could do was cry as they literally dragged me back to the car and to that prison I used to call home. I wasn't psycho, just abused, scared, and trapped.

I can't write anymore. You have no idea what it took just for me to write this. It has been increasingly hard for me to find pleasure in writing as I used to do, and I don't know how to cope. I want to write, but every time I try the memories flood back, the holes in my soul stare at me, agape with fear and shame. I just don't know what to do anymore, I don't. I tried, for a while, and even managed to come out with things I liked, but each time I wrote it became harder and harder. I guess I need to heal, only I don't know how to go about it. So please, please forgive me if I am absent for a time. I need to figure out how to heal from this instead of ignoring it, and how to get to the point where I enjoy my favorite pastime again.

~Marina Katie