To say that I love writing would be putting it lightly. My journey with the craft started at a very early age.
I was about 5 years old when I would drag a case of books to my cousin to force him to read to me.
I would listen and follow along with the words while he read, and then I would practice reading out loud with him, asking him to pronounce the "big" words that I couldn't understand.
He wasn't a big fan of this process.
After all, he was much older than me and I was making him spend his free time reading children's books.
He obliged nevertheless.
My cousin was an emotionally inclined athele.
He loved reading just as much as he loved sports, and he knew that I shared his love for literature. So, he gave me one of his school assigned readers.
He told me that he really liked the book, and I should tell him what I think about it. I was in the second grade, he was in sixth.
That book, One Magic Moment by Jenny Robson, made a huge impact on my life and is essentially what kick-started my love for creative writing.
Upon completion of the story, I was struck with an abundance of creative energy, shocking my inner author to life.
I would fold pages together and start writing and illustrating my own stories.
I was just a little girl, so a lot my writing would consist of fairies, mermaids and death.
Literally, I wrote about a fairy that drowned and she had her floating corpse discovered by her other fairy friend. I drew an illustration alongside it and everything.
Anyway.
I reached the third grade and I was seated in between a bookshelf and one of the naughtiest boys in our grade.
I was seated next to him by our educator, in hopes that my good behaviour would rub off on him.
On my right hand side was a bookshelf that contained books that were created by other students.
On my left hand side was a boy that begged to read my writing when he saw me jotting down words in the middle of class.
I can't remember exactly what I was writing at the time, but when I did let him read it he asked me to write a continuation, and so I did.
This was an extension of when I would make my family members read my self-made stories in my home.
This was the beginning of my academic essays being read out to the class as a "perfect example on how to do the assignment."
My work would be presented to the class instead of the actual memorandum. This remained a consistent occurrence throughout my scholastic career.
Fourth grade arrived and my love for writing only grew more.
I eventually dedicated myself to writing a story about a girl named Christy, who dealt with everyday life by communicating with a miniature version of herself inside of her head that would basically embody all of the things that she wanted to do and say in real life, but never had the guts to.
I passed this story on to my friend that sat next to me, I'm still friends with her to this day, and she encouraged me to keep writing.
A select group of girls in my class read my story, and would dicuss it amongst themselves and with me like a little fanclub.
They would tell me their favourite parts of the book, which characters were their favourite, and would urge me to write the next chapter everytime I gave them a new one.
These are only a few of my childhood experiences, but surely you can tell that I love writing more than I love myself.
It is frustrating at times, though, knowing that no matter how much I write and no matter how uniquely and authentically I can express how I feel through words, I can never seem to heal.
Writing is what made me realise that happiness does not come naturally to me.
By the time that I was five years old, I already knew how to French kiss and what it was like to have a man's penis in between my legs.
Writing is my escape from the hardships and troubles of life.
I was fourteen when he died in front of me.
Even though I am tired of constantly having to fight for happiness, at least I could express my exhaustion in a way that made others feel seen and heard.
I had to prove that I was worth keeping alive, but no matter what I do, I never seem to be good enough.
I actually wish that happiness did come to me naturally. Being happy feels like a choice.
You have to make the right decisions, you have to engage in healthy coping mechanisms, you have to not let your past define you.
Why am I healing from things that were never my fault?
I was only a baby.
I wasn't even the height of a bathroom sink.
❥ With everlasting love,
angelsclique - 19.09.24
