Write. It. Out.

It won’t last. That dull thud in your chest. The lump in your throat that keeps you silent. The sweaty palm thing won’t ever go away, but that’s okay. It’ll happen less and less. There’s a name for it, and you will call it. You remember everything. You are not weird. You are not a reject. You are not bad. You don’t know what you are. It takes time to understand, to channel it into something you can grasp. Something that is yours. But let me tell you, those floodgates will open wide, gushing w...