Indira has a new chapter. It’s graphic and horrific. There’s something therapeutic about writing about something similar that happened to me but about someone else. It’s like being able to talk about something horrible without all the emotional repercussions.
Don’t get me wrong. I felt my heart break for Indira, but it isn’t as bad as the confusion of feeling my own heart break over what happened to me. I cried for her, but she’s not real. Although, what I just wrote is something that happens to women/girls/boys/men/transgender persons everyday but with different details. The feelings are still the same.
I’m going to continue writing Indira just because there is a lot more to her story that I think needs to be written.
It’s that feeling when you know you have something important to do.
Even if it’s only important to me… at least I said it.