While there’s life there’s hope. – Miguel de Cervantes, Don Quixote

For Penelope. For hope.

How much time do I have to free you, scared little girl? How much time did you sleep in that dark closet, buried under histories barely-whispered, barely-spoken? How much did it hurt to hide from the degradation and the pain? Drifting alone in the hull of Noah’s ark, sailing-away and waking-up again, not you. How much time have you been here inside me? Is it warm or cold? Scared adult woman. How did you survive? Please reach out to me, I’ll offer you a hand. Please, I need your help.

They tried to put you in a camp. They [redacted] you and broke you and taught you that the only love you deserve is the kind that hurts. The kind that violates you, that feels like your skin is burning and your life belongs to someone else. They told you to never tell anyone. You told people and it didn’t matter. But you fought and you bit and you scratched and you bled and you bruised and you spit. And your body kept hurting. And your skin kept burning. And you kept fighting. And burning. And fighting. And burning.

I see you, I glimpse you, for the first time. Adrift in the sea of 2024, I spy you. You through the soft guidance of another, I see you. You through gritted-teeth, I see you. And you’re scared. And you’re trying to see the light. And the dark from the cave continues to creep in. Little girl, who never got to be a little girl. Adult woman, womaning in the world with no direction. Little girl, who bubbled up in play, who rolled in the grass and collected bugs in the dirt and scraped her knee on the asphalt. Little girl, who made-up worlds that she could explore and escape in, where she was free. Little girl, unable to breathe and forced to shove-down memories until you get sick. Until they try to put you in a camp. Little girl.

Adult human woman. I see you. I’m here for you. I am you. Penelope, hold on. The deep dark has been there all along and you know what lies down there. But the spirit that keeps thumping restless in your heart is there too. The spirit that hums love whenever Katie is around. The spirit that dances freedom whenever jazz is on the radio. The spirit that smiles equality surrounded by trees and singing birds. The spirit that was ever-ever-womaning, even when my body was not. The spirit that is me, even when I feel so far away. Glimpsing you, barely, barely, through the porthole of dysphoria, of dissociation and depersonalization, of fear fear fear, I see you.

And I’m here. And I’ve got you.

Don’t throw away the hero in your soul. Hold your highest hopes holy. – Friedrich Nietzsche, Thus Spoke Zarathustra

Image: The Coming Storm by Winslow Homer (1901)