I can’t remember a time when I didn’t write. Even as a kid I would write stories, and poems on scraps of paper. I drew pictures that eventually became art. My mom likely has a folder full of my little doodles and tales. As the years passed I kept diaries and bought coil bound notebooks that I filled with my emotions and tid bits of my life. Over time my coiled books were replaced with more beautiful books, leather-bound with soft paper. I am quite often found in this section of a store just browsing the many different textures and colors that are available. I know it tortures most everyone I shop with, but they call to me, whispering in the pages as I get closer. I do my best to resist the urge to pick up another one, knowing I have a few at home not even started. The smell of the paper and the feel of the leather in my hands is like looking at a table of pastry for someone who loves their sweets…irresistable!
Why do I write? I actually started blogging for this reason as well and I will explain it more as I go. My need to write began as a child. I have always been an emotional person, often feeling overwhelmed by them, and seldom had a way to let those emotions out. I started writing when a teacher I had at the time discussed the release of thought and emotion on paper and I was sold. Suffering from anxiety for as long as I remember, writing gave me an outlet to express myself without having to worry about what other people would say or feel. It was my sanctuary. It was the room you close the door on and scream. It was the warm bath and soft tears after a hard day. Putting my feelings on paper was the therapist I greatly needed but could never ask for. I used to sit and read old posts and reflect on just how undone I was as a person. So much raw emotion and hurt lay within those scribbles. There were dried tear stains and scribbles over words that were even too hard for me to share with myself. Looking back over the events that shaped my youth and early adult life I see the uncertainty and need to be understood reflecting back at me.
I didn’t always know I was a medium, in fact until this last spring I just concluded I was going to live with panic and anxiety my whole life and I better just come to terms with it. I had read a million books and found no resolve within the pages as to why I felt how I felt. I just knew all the rational thoughts in the world couldn’t stop those terrifying moments from coming back. I wrote about wishing I could just be normal on so many occasions I’m scared to count. I just couldn’t wrap my head around why I was always so incredibly unhappy while I lived a rather good life. It just didn’t make sense to me to be selfish about wanting something else when I had so much more than so many other people had. But I’m not a ‘stuff’ person…I don’t need things, material or otherwise. I need acceptance, love, appreciation, and understanding. If I had all that and a cardboard box I would live happily ever after….right?!? At the time when I wrote those words I genuinely felt that would be the answer, that would save my soul and everything would fall into place. It was not me that was broken, it was everyone around me! So I wrote “Why can’t I just be loved?” “When will they understand I can’t be bought?” and the list goes on. All the while I related my problems with the fact that other people didn’t understand me. I remember on countless occasions waking up in the middle of the night and pulling my book out of the nightstand to write the words that came through my head in a dream. I can’t begin to understand the way the mind works but I can tell you mine plays in a high-definition realm and there are no shades of grey. I would spend more time writing on scraps of loose leaf in my homework than I would actually doing the assignments.
I believe the spirit inside us all gives us the tools we need to enable us to move forward and learn all our life lessons. I truly feel with all my heart that my writing, my ranting and my tear stricken pages were my tools of survival as a teen. Maybe I would never be famous or write a book but the emotions I let go on those beautiful pages were more powerful than any other teaching I could have at the time. I have no doubt if I hadn’t started to relay my thoughts on paper I would not be the person I am today. While most people walk past the wall filled with pretty books, covered in flowers or with little sayings on them, they may stop to admire the uniqueness and even stop long enough to open them once or twice. For me…they are my blood and soul, my survival. My addiction.