How Writing Became My "Rock"

Years ago, back in Elementary, there was thing program called the "Young Authors Club". And in this 'club' a group of people would write a story [separately] and then share it. My friend and I always wrote a story. I remember the first one I wrote was a scary story. Then I did a collaboration of poems with 2 other friends. And the last year I did it, I believe I started a novella and never finished it.
That's when I realized writing was my passion.

Now, I've never been published, or had much popularity with my stories, and I don't care about that. What I do care about, is that it helps to cheer me up when I'm upset. It's basically my antidepressant drug.




Back in 2005/2006, my parents were in a really rough patch in their marriage. They were constantly fighting, and my dad was constantly drinking. I got really depressed and ended up writing a lot of morbid poems. Such as this one:

"I'm dying inside, and nobody cares.
Can't somebody come save me?
Deep scarlet drops,
fall to the floor,
I'm dying inside.
Nobody sees the tears I cry,
cause I always hide,
before they see my eyes.
I want to live, but don't know how.
So for now,
I relish the pain,
this sharp blade brings,
watching the dark scarlet drops,
drip to the floor.
I'm dying inside,
you will never know.
Know I lay,
dead on the floor.
I gave in to the pain,
cut to deep.
I made the mistake,
all those other teens made.
Did you not believe me,
When I said goodbye?
I will never see tomorrow,
as my world goes black.
Scarlet blood around me,
as I say my last goodbye."

No, it didn't have any form, but it got the words out. But soon, words were not enough. I began to do the things that I wrote about in my poems. I would cut, and carve, and take a handful of pills. It was never enough to do anything, but it helped. And still, there are times I want to go back to that. I quit in 2008, when my dad finally moved out. But then, I was stuck facing the fact that my half-brother might move in. And so began an onslaught of poems such as this one:

"My life is a mess...
a drunk for a father and a bitch for a mother.

I'm only a teen,
yet I've seen so much.

Raped at young
and beaten all the rest.

Only one guy holds my heart,
and he's not even mine.

It's almost impossible for me to cry,
go ahead, try.

My life is in the blade now,
though I've tried throwing it away.

My room is always a mess,
covered with felt projects I never finish.

Some people call me scene or emo,
just because I wear black...

Yet I'm also called preppy,
because I put on fake smiles they don't know about.

I've lost a best friend,
due to a simple date.

And gained a new,
just to lose him to a friend.

I hide inside myself,
just to see if it'll all go away.

I hate makeup,
and rather play soccer than go to the mall.

My feelings get confused a lot,
and that's when I lash out.

My friends consider me bi-polar,
yet I think I'm just misunderstood.

And if you want the full truth,
I'm afraid to be me."

The main part of this poem is the part about the rape. That was my half-brother. But I still continued to write. My moods varied, as well as what I wrote. I didn't think about it then, but writing saved my life. If I hadn't had that little bit of release each time I wrote, it might have all been too much for me.

And as time went on, I began to look back on everything. My father, my brother, and the way my mom started acting. And then I began writing again. As my mother yelled insult after insult at her 4 children, I began to sink deeper and deeper back into my depression. I would cry myself to sleep and not wake up until late in the evenings on the weekends. School became my refuge and I hid behind fake emotions. Coming home was always hard, I never knew what kind of mood she would be in. Which led to more poems. Like:

"Mama please...
please quit causing yourself this grief.
You're finally free,
yet you take after Daddy.
Mama, can't you see...
the pain you cause when you hold that knife,
waking me up,
with a threat and a yell.
Daddy please...
come back here.
Drop the bottle,
and come help Mama.
Mama, Daddy,
I'm scared.
You took the chance of being together,
and look what you've caused.
A rush of pain and emotions,
as you throw that chair there.
Mama save me...
I don't know what to do.
Daddy stop...
don't put that gun there.
Please don't die...
take that barrel away.
Daddy please,
just go away.
You've caused enough pain...
making my brother see that.
Mama...
Daddy...
just stop your fighting and leave."

But as my siblings got older, mom settled down a little. But with my brother having autism, she became stressed when he'd come home from school, yelling and screaming.

On October 2008, I discovered NaNoWriMo, or National Novel Writing Month. The goal was the write 50,000 words in the month of November. So, with no plot, tons of downloaded music, and the forums filled with ideas and dares, I jumped in.

And I wrote 7,000 words. But that month was the happiest I had been in a long time. I wrote about anything, giant beach balls and pink poodles and a baby with a spork. I wrote about high school romance and beach parties. None of the story made sense, but I wrote it. And writing it helped me. It didn't matter what was going on, all I had to do was load my computer and start typing. It didn't matter what I wrote about. But it got out.

2010, my life started to get a little better. I met a great guy, I had 2 of the best friends anyone could ever want, my brother had finally mellowed out some, and with the prospect of being able to drive the next year, I was actually happy.

But then, that great guy turned abusive, and one of those best friends left me. The car I was supposed to be able to drive was unfixable, and my older sister was pregnant in high school. Things began to take a turn for the worse. I didn't know which direction to turn. I stopped writing. Everytime I put my pencil to the paper, my mind drew a blank. I ran out of words. And so I began to go back into my shell. I didn't talk to anybody, I was trying not to anger that "great guy", and I was trying to keep my mom happy.

I was babysitting from 9pm until 7am. Where I would have to get my younger siblings out of bed for the bus, and get my older sister up and ready for school, which she'd drive me to.

Then she started going to a "mommy" school. And I had to ride the bus. Where I was tormented about my "poop" colored hair and my "whore" of a sister. People expected me to turn out like her. My grades began to drop and I started to carve again. I carved the word "Love" onto my left hip then drew a line through it. Because it was the one thing I never thought I'd get.

"These demons keep eating at me.

They tear apart my soul and rip out my heart.

They attack my weaknesses.

Causing me pain,
suffering,
misery.

Gnawing on my feelings,
sneaking inside my mind,
driving me crazy.

They want me to fall apart.

They want me to fall to pieces."

I didn't know who to turn to.

I made myself write my 2010 NaNo. I only reached 15,000 words.

I wrote 17,000 words NaNo 2011 because everytime I tried to write, "great guy" would complain.

But once my birthday came around, and I was able to drive, it was a little easier. I could get out when I needed, or when that "great guy" let me, that is. I took up a few hobbies and I was doing good on the track team. But I was stressed because of grades and not knowing where I wanted to go in life. My choices of colleges were limited because me and the guy were talking about moving in together but he didn't want to move out of state for my college.

Last year [2011], just a few months ago, I got accepted to a college in New York City. He told me no. We fought over my college choices for months. And as soon as I received that letter, it got even worse. By then, I decided I wanted to go into journalism and NYC would be the perfect place to pursue that. He still argued with me. And so, on February 27, 2012 I ended a year and 10 month long relationship.

And I'd never felt more free.

And a friend I'd had for 7+ years asked me out 2 days later. I said yes.

I know it seems soon, but I've known him for that long, and liked him just about the same amount of time, and he feels the same. And now, this year, is MY year. My year to achieve all the goals I have wanted to do. I'm going to get my first job. And I'm going to go to a college near my [now] boyfriend and get a Bachelor's in communication arts. I'm going to enjoy my first high school dance without my ex, my senior prom. I'm going to move out, and I'm going to re open my Etsy store.

My stories and poems are getting happier and happier. And every thought I have is crystal clear. I have amazing friends and an amazing boyfriend. I'm looking forward to turn over a new leaf. And if it wasn't for writing, I might not have ever reached this point. I might not have even been alive to see this day. No one will ever know. And for that reason, writing is my rock. It is my first love, and my final love. I will write for as long as I'm able and I will never take for granted the ability to put words onto paper.

Writing saved my life.

"Go to bed, sleepyhead, because
The morning’s almost here.

Your eyelids feel like lead, and
There’s nothing here to fear.

Go to bed, sleepyhead, there’s
Not enough time to waste.

I heard what you said, but
You need to make haste.

Go to bed, sleepyhead,
And dream of me instead."