I don’t remember falling in love with words. It just happened.
Writing has always been my coping mechanism, starting with journals when I was eight years old. Maybe it’s my OCD tenancies and I like to see something solid on paper to make sense of it. Maybe I’m better at writing my thoughts than I am at voicing them. Maybe I’ve never tried anything else – but then again, I’ve never needed to.
Writing may not always make the most sense to others, or be the most reasonable solution, but words comfort me. They come easily when I am alone with a computer, whereas they don’t when I have to form them with my mouth.
It could have something to do with having the time to think out what I want to express, rather than embracing my lovely talent for word-vomiting. Maybe I like people to know where I come from,the reasoning behind my thoughts and actions.
Or maybe I’m just dramatic and like making things out to be more than they are. Maybe I like to over-analyze everything by putting it to paper.
Maybe I like being able to tell other people’s stories, to make them feel as if they have a voice. Sure, I like telling my own. But it’s more satisfying to let someone else do the talking and then piece it together, word by word, until a story is born.
I don’t know, it could be all of these reasons. And more.
But I do know this much – it’s not for the sense of accomplishment or the acknowledgement.
I think I write so that I can make the hard lessons in life mean something by sharing them with other people and giving them a sense of connection and familiarity. Sure, I could tell them generic stories of that one time when that one boy broke my heart – but it’s not the same as reading the raw, painful, powerful words, words that were typed with shaking hands and tears streaming down my face. Words that were typed when I was at my most vulnerable, my lowest point.
And it’s the entries that follow those points that I want them to learn from – even though there can be (and probably will be) rock bottom in this life, there is always a ladder out of rock bottom, too. A ladder made up of family, friends, the sky, exercise, green lights, cake and ice cream, self-worth – a ladder made of the little things in life, not the big things. That ladder is always present if we want it, if we look hard enough.
In the end, I write for one reason – because I want people to know that they aren’t alone in this roller-coaster, whirl-wind, hell of a life.