As a little girl, I wholeheartedly believed there was a monster under my bed. I pictured it being so furry I couldn't see its eyes- yet it could see me, even in the dark. This horrible demon had a mouth armed with sharp, razor-like teeth and made low-pitched scary roaring noises that echoed down the hallway outside of my bedroom. I would lie very still, listening intently for a sign that I was about to become its prey.

I was in second grade when I realized I had only imagined this monster. Monsters only exist in scary picture books and horror movies my babysitter described. I found it quite amusing that I was so fearful of something that never really existed! I realized I was safe and had nothing to fear. Or so I thought...

Never will I forget the day, in his "you are in HUGE trouble" voice, my father came to my room and demanded I follow him to the family room. Once there, I was instructed to sit next to him on the couch. He held up the red diary my mother rifled through my bedroom to find and dropped it into my lap. "Open it and read it to me," he demanded. Yes, my child psychiatrist father forced me to read aloud my innermost thoughts. Most painfully, he used my thoughts and words in my own writing against me.

Today someone threw a rock through my window. To specify, the rock was thrown through the window of my soul.

This morning a friend of mine told me a story. It was her story. It was upsetting and had potentially severe repercussions- for both of us…

Today on this crisp sunny afternoon, I journeyed home from a visit with family up north of my home. The sky was filled with birds, and both sides of the turnpike offered ample views of the bare-branched trees. Suddenly this blog post came into my mind. Line after line wrote themselves while I drove.

I was so intrigued by the barren branches and how they seemed like reaching hands.