Stained

The branches on the trees are barely shaking. The weather is windy but warm, and the skys are dark but somehow it is still light. Puddles are in the creases of the place, waiting for you warm invatitation to splash in them. I’m here, and I am fixed on my place. I’m observing how the leaves have now turned green and the flowers bloomed. The spring and summer months I look the most foward to. Everything seems so dead in the winter. In the summer, it’s like nature is back alive. Not like it actually ever died, but maybe I don’t see the beauty in it then.

When I am in my place, my thoughts run loose but they seem not to race as much. I get to thinking about the past and what ways I can reconnect with nature. For me, making that connection is taking the power back; this is like saying, my health doesn’t own me. My health status doesn’t define me. My speech disorder doesn’t take away so many multiple ways I can use my voice. I use to almost stained by it. It’s like when you spill wine on a white tee shirt and try for hours to get it off. You are there scrubbing, desperately taking your soap and sponge feeling your muscles clench as the minutes go by. You feel the heat to at the temples of your head and sweat starts to reach the surface of your skin. After a while, you start to lose your breath. After a while of trying to remove the stain, and you realize you cannot, and you accept you can’t remove the stain. My voice is owning my truth and accepting it. It’s this alternative form of confidence for me. I use to be so ashamed of my struggles, why didn’t others struggle with speaking? Why did I have to be born with this? However, I have learned to be a voice and not a victim. I will never be a victim. I refuse it.

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