Growing up, I do not remember ever being allowed to have a voice to speak out about what I believed in, what I was thinking about, what I was feeling during many moments in my life.­

The only voice I had was “OK, mom and dad.”

And as a child, some of us are told not to speak to others about our household business.­

They say, “Nobody needs to know our business, and there is no need to be running to anyone for help; everything is under control here.”­

They did not know that children get scared and when children get scared they run for help.­

In tears the child seeks help, but there is no response because their voice cannot be used to speak.­

In my house, I was one of those children with no place to run to for help. I was traumatized.­

There should not be any finger pointing, but I do know of one person who may have caused most of this — my father.­

He was an alcoholic.­­

I had a love/hate relationship for my father. On his sober days, I loved him because he was not drunk– he actually knew he had children. On other days, with every drink he took, I hated him because he was reckless and unaware of the fear, danger and tears one of his children shed.­

At the age of 11, I did not want anything to do with him because it seemed like as I got older bad days were more common than good days.­

And with those bad days, I was not allowed to run and ask for help.­

Ideas do not flow right out of me, I am still at some point afraid to speak out loud about my opinions. 

That is a reason why opinion stories are a challenge for me to get done, but somehow I am managing to fight that closed-minded self and let my thoughts flow.­

I have found an interest in journalism, and it is my own way of expressing myself whether it be published or written down in a journal.­

Because I can finally say that I will not be asked to close my mouth. Because my opinions are valid for once.­

And as I sit, I think about my next opinion story.

Speak.