There are parenting blogs and business blogs and photo blogs and music blogs and news blogs and tech blogs and art blogs and travel blogs and food blogs and political blogs and the one thing they all share in common is voice. Blogging, by its very nature, is a personal endeavour. Our souls color our words, for good or ill, and that is what makes what we do exceptional. All of us. Each and every one of you. You share your soul in every picture, in every semicolon, in every over-used ellipse...
Once in a while, though, one of those 70 million blogs, one of those ones created in the time you took to blink just now, one of those 38.5 million that are active today, one of them comes along and stops the world. You never know which one it's going to be. I'll bet Maggie Dammit didn't know a year ago when she hit publish that it was going to be hers.
A year ago today, during one of those blinks of an eye, a girl named Maggie started a blog called Violence Unsilenced. She wanted to see a place where survivors of anything could come and talk, just share, just hand what they spent a lifetime carrying heavy on their backs over to someone else.
As of today, 101 survivors have spoken. Some do it anonymously, some do it discreetly, some shout to the rooftops. We all are at different stages of this game, after all, this letting go. It's a language, and together we're learning to speak it.
It's not a language that anyone comes to easily. My friend Kelly once said, "silence is a weapon women use against themselves", and there are few things I read that hit me square in the gut, but that one did. The less we share, the less we talk, the more silent we are about these things that have been thrust upon us here-I-come-ready-or-not, the more deeply they cut us.
I got tired of being cut. 100 other people got tired of being cut. 101 of us, so far, have banded together to accept that we aren't the inmates, we are the asylum of things that wives and husbands, sons and daughters, friends and lovers should never have to house.
I will never, ever, be able to return to my mother the fear that she whispered into my head so she didn't have to carry it anymore. I will never have the chance to give my father back his bloodstains and his degradation. What I can do is wash it off of my skin, rinse it out of my mouth, ball it up in my fingers and beat it to death on this keyboard. I can give it to you, to them, to those of us who have been convinced by god or man that it is ours alone to carry.
Alone is the most desperate word. Silence is the strongest weapon. Broken is something we can be, or something we can do.
I did. We did together. And we're changing the world, one keystroke at a time.
Happy anniversary to each and every one of us, each part that making us all whole again.