I started writing at a really young age. I remember my teachers from elementary school submitting my assignments for contests that were held throughout the school year, and finding my work on the walls, in different halls. I always had a vivid imagination, consumed with the ideas of magic and grandeur, life always moving on and throwing you around. I started out as a little girl with a lot of things to think about and say, and paper just seemed to be the perfect place to do that.
And as I grew, my love for writing grew, too; I wanted to be a novelist for years. I had at least a hundred different ideas that were either written down on paper, or typed up on a computer—although none were ever completed. Either I would get bored by the time I was done micromanaging characters, I would lose interest in a story after a couple of chapters, I wouldn’t know where to go with my stories, or I would get a new idea entirely, and move onto a new project.
Either I have an attention deficit, or my laziness is so strong, that I can’t finish anything, ever. I’m not sure which…but it might be a little bit of both.
In one of my first posts about writing, I said that I knew I was a writer in the ninth grade, and that is true. I started way before that, but I didn’t know that I had much potential until then, when my English teacher reveled in this poem I wrote about my parents. Her support really pushed me to want to write more, to follow a career path that allowed me to write.
I’ve had support previously from teachers I had before her, but none of them really ever told me the potential they saw. Ms. Coleman did. And because she did, I wanted to make her proud.
That following summer, I wrote about seven chapters about twins who had telepathic powers before I lost myself in the writing. I didn’t know where I was going to go with it, and I stopped the story completely. It was the furthest I had ever gotten into a story, and I had lost any interest in recollecting myself, and coming up with a story that people would want to read.
I was clueless.
And I found that whenever I tried to start something new, the same thing would happen. I even gave up for a little while there, while I was in college…
And then blogging became a thing for me. At the time, I learned that my friends, Tyler and Amanda, were both doing their own things: documenting their lives, sharing stories, putting it all out there. And I thought that maybe if I did the same, I could reconnect with that love I had for writing, and share my story. Leave a little something for others that were looking, and for myself, in case I wanted to look back.
And then I stopped for a while…until I came back home from school, and eventually realized I was in a depression. Writing flown back into my life for a different reason this time around; I wanted to know why I was so depressed, why I hated my life so much. And after a couple of months, a revelation punched me in the face. Hard.
The reason for my depression was so obvious, and there I was, questioning it. Either I was in denial, or just that clueless, I wasn’t sure. But I was so disappointed that I hadn’t realized it sooner: I was depressed because I felt like everybody else was moving on and progressing and growing up, and I was not. I was Peter Pan, stuck in Neverland.
I didn’t like who I was; my 2015 – early 2017 self was not a happy person whatsoever. She was bitter and alone and lost, unable to get over her grief and self-deprecation. And because of that, she put all of her focus on things that distracted her from how unhappy she was with her life.
It took writing to change that. I used my blog to try to pinpoint where I had gone wrong, what made me so unhappy; and then I used it to fuel some drive back into my life. To find things that make me happy, to remind myself of all the things that I should be grateful for, to be proud of the person I am, to get me back on track and moving on with my life.
To discover and rediscover all the things about me that make me, well…me.
The intense amount of desperation for wanting to rediscover myself, and to build a better version of myself, is what pushed me to continue writing. I pushed myself into such a low point in my life, and then I kept pushing, until I came to the conclusion that nobody was going to fix me except for myself. And that basically drew me into a person that didn’t want people to help me, even those that wanted to, because it wasn’t something that people could help me with.
The construction of my life is a one-person project, and that is something I had to learn on my own. So I hid away, and did a lot of thinking, and a lot of writing. I’ve shared more on here than I had ever shared with anyone else in my life personally—even my best, closest friends and family members. Writing became my outlet.
And despite the fact that I last used writing as a tool for self-discovery, repair, and growth, my journey is not over. I haven’t even hit my quarter-life mark yet, so how could I possibly be finished with learning about myself, and know who I am? I have a lot more progress to go, but I started 2018 with a more positive outlook, and plan to keep it that way.
I will continue to write. I will use it to help myself, help others, and continue to let my voice be heard. My story is still in its earlier chapters, and I will use my constant desperation for bettering my life and myself to push me to continue this thing that I love to do so much.
So thanks for hearing my voice. It feels nice to be heard.
Prompt: What made you start writing? What pushes you to continue writing?