Not Just an Escape


I always hear other writers asking each other “Why did you start writing?”  There are always so many different answers and they are all fantastic reasons, unless you are only writing to make money.  I was inspired to share my own story.

I have always been a story teller.  My mom has a video of me telling my grandma about a monster that slapped me.  To get my point across I slapped myself to show my grandma how hard that bad monster hit me.  I was a very adorable kid.  Even after that I remember singing stories.  I can’t sing to save my life, but I sure did sing a lot when I was a kid.  It’s just what I have always done, I tell stories.

When I was in 3rd grade I had moved to a new school and I wasn’t very popular.  I was picked on by everyone in my class. I was like the class punching bag.  I was never physically hit, but words to hurt people! Words hurt! I started getting a little depressed.  When I was 12 my dad broke his neck and became disabled.  With that we lost our home and vehicles and…everything.  We had to live with my aunt for a little bit until we found a new place to live.

This was actually a bit of a blessing.  I was on the verge of committing suicide.  I had so many ways I was going to kill myself and none of them were just for attention.  I felt like I was the biggest waste of space and I believed all the lies people told me.  I even found out that my own “friends” were making fun of me.  It was a very dark time in my life.

By 8th grade I was in a new school with new people and was like one of those little puppy dogs that shiver all the time.  I was waiting for the torment to start all over again.  It wasn’t so bad really, but my depression didn’t get any better.  In 9th grade I made more friends, a few were from 8th grade but they didn’t stick around very long.  This is about the time I really started writing poetry.

I was still depressed but I didn’t want to die anymore.  Actually, I wanted to either fade away or make everyone else feel the pain I had felt.  My parents were still having money problems and I had a really hard time trusting people.  So I wrote poetry about everything an angry and depressed girl could write about.  I wrote about suicide, killing others (yeah…), and of course my knight and shinning armor that would come save me from the horrible world.

This was my escape.  Poetry might have saved my life.

The summer before my senior year of high school my family lost our home again.  This time my aunt was not around to take us in.  She had died of cancer a few years before.  We ended up living in a tent at the lake for a few months.  And before you think how horrible that could have been, don’t. It really wasn’t that bad.  It was summer and I could go swimming in the lake when ever I wanted.

We finally found a home and my senior year had started. I was still angry and depressed.  I had been through a lot of crap for an 18 year old.  Also, while all my friends were hanging out with their boyfriends I was sitting at home living the single life.

It wasn’t until college that I really started writing seriously.  I had written short stories but I didn’t realize the potential until college.  Still being single I realized that while I may not be able to find my perfect boyfriend I could create him.  Even though my life wasn’t perfect, I could create a perfect life.  I have always lived in books and I knew the power the words held over me.  I knew how they pulled me in and wrapped me in a warm blanket of peace.  It was college that I realized I could knit that warm blanket of peace myself.  I could write my own perfect world with my own perfect love life.

Reading was an escape.  Poetry healed my wounds.  Short stories gave me life again.  I am happiest when I am in my own world, created by the words that bled from my pen.  My soul leaked onto the pages and created something I could call my own and only I could change the outcome.  Of course, that was before I allowed the characters to develop their own voices.  Now, they tell me what to write but they are my best friends and I am happy living among them.

I write because I don’t feel like I belong in this world.  I write because my words are my saving light in the darkness of depression.  I write because it is who I am.


2 thoughts on “Not Just an Escape

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