You told me to talk today. You told me that it would have been easier if I had spoken up before. But earlier you wanted nothing to do with me. You told me to shut up. So I turned to paper. Paper was always kind to me, and it never judged me. It was so helpful, it no longer became an it, but a person. Paper was, and is, like a sister to me.

She was always available to me, in many sizes and forms. She had lines for me, and she was solid, so that I could choose how big or small to make my letters. She literally bended over backwards to keep my writing safe, rolling up or hiding in a folder. She would open up only when I felt safe enough to. And I would reward her by adding more and more words, forming sentences and paragraphs. The smoothness of the pen creating little shapes and symbols, which in turn became letters, was comforting to us both.

And when I ran out of room, she would multiply. She would continue in perfect sequence, and she didn’t mind when I pierced her upper left-hand corner so her and her friends could be kept together in the correct order in which they appeared. And each piece did not mind sharing the spotlight when the story was read. They take turns calmly, and everyone gets their share.

Paper gives me freedom to say what I want and how I feel. And if you cannot see that, then I have news for you. I don’t have a problem. You do.