Two years of blogging and writing and creating little memes.
Two years of spilling my life on paper – or screen, telling my story to anyone who will listen.
Two years of looking for connections and validation and camaraderie.
Two years of growing, and learning more about myself, my capabilities, and my strengths.
Two years of doing something I love to do.
I won’t lie, there have been days when I thought to myself, what am I doing? I can’t do this. I can’t write in a colourful and creative manner, drawing in readers from all over the world wide web to read stories about my life. Who’s going to care? Who’s going to listen to what little ole me has to say?
But then the community that I’ve stuffed myself into embraces me with warm words and appreciation. They connect with my words and suddenly, I’m not the only one who…
This community helps me grow and shares my words with their audiences. This community does nothing but lift each other up and I’m grateful I was able to leave my insecurities at the door and shove my way through like a cat through a mouse hole. Those in this community remind me of the importance of writing.
I want this. I want to write.
I write because it’s my favourite way to communicate. It’s the easiest way for me to release the immense and overwhelming amount of thoughts that go through my mind every day. When I was younger and going through the start of my depression, this was the way I communicated with my parents – through notes and letters. Yes, the same parents that I lived with and who I slept just feet away from.
Writing is my preferred choice of communication because I feel safe. I’m hidden behind words. I can say what I need to say without interruptions and confusions. I can lessen my anxieties by allowing my words to spill rather than drip. If you could see what goes on in my average sized head, you’d probably say it looked similar to an exploding file cabinet. Words – busy words – everywhere.
I write because it’s cathartic and it helps. It allows me to express myself in the rawest form and I get to decide if anyone else will get to hear my truths. I’m not bound by permanency until I say so.
I used to journal religiously back in high school, spilling my deepest most frightening thoughts on paper, writing vigorously until my arm cramped and I was forced to stop. You know those times. The years filled with teenage angst and emotions. Unsure where to turn or who to trust. The regular teenage hormones coupled with my developing mental illnesses became a terrifying concoction.
And writing was my life saver.
I write because I reach people. I have had a handful of people write to me, thanking me for sharing my words, the same words that have been stirring in their minds, but in which they couldn’t expel. I’ve also had people write to me to tell me that they’re there should I need them.
It’s an amazing feeling when you can share a less-than-fabulous moment about yourself and receive positive and supportive feedback from people you don’t know outside of social media. That connection is incredible and so appreciated.
I chose to start writing because I wanted to find myself again. I wanted something that was mine. I wanted to prove to myself that I could.
I keep writing because I want to.