I believe in writing, in writing out what I feel, what I think, and what it all means to me. I have never liked writing, I never kept a journal as a little kid or if I tried it always ended in half filled pages with week gaps in between entries and scribbles of words that meant nothing. I would sit down at my desk and try and try and try to fulfill what I thought all seven year old girls did, write in their journals.
It wasn’t until I was sixteen years old and crying my heart out to my cheerleading coach who, despite a difficult life, had overcome the millions of obstacles facing her through writing, did I even consider keeping a journal. As I stared down at my Uggs, the leather pushed all over creating little patterns, my coach firmly pushed the idea of writing. The yellowy light reflected off the veneer on the bleachers, hitting me squarely in the face, temporarily blinding me like the headlights of a car at night as I continued to burry my head in my lap, wallowing in self pity. At first I scoffed, telling her that I’d tried many times, that writing just didn’t work for me, but slowly, my defenses broke down. I had run out of excuses, reasons I couldn’t do it, and accepted the advice, picking up a baby blue spiral bound on my way home.
Driving to the store, tapping the wheel impatiently and humming to the music, I began to think about what my coach had said. As the subtle beats of my music pulsed through the speakers while I stared up at a fire truck red light, I began to wonder if this would finally be the outlet for my energy. My foot pressed down on the gas pedal, urging the car forward, as my mind was filled with the possibility of days full of writing out my problems.
That night I sat on my bed cross legged, a pen in my hand which I tapped impatiently on the first sheet of lined paper, creating hundreds of little dots and not writing anything at all. Sitting for what seemed like hours, doubting my choice to even purchase a notebook, and considering giving up, I took the plunge, writing my very first words. It started slowly but after days and days of trying, I finally began resolving my problems through writing.
One day after a long discussion on the phone with a friend, I found myself curled up in a corner of my room writing not about things that angered me or made me sad, but about my current state of happiness. I had finally shifted from only sad expression, to constant expression.
Now, whenever I need to think or am upset or even happy, I turn to my writing, the pages and pages I have filled up with the trivial issues in my life. Before my writing, I had tried everything. Running, talking, even baking to try to get my emotions out, but nothing seemed to work. I couldn’t always force myself to run, talking just made me complain, and baking was just plain useless, but writing, writing is the only place I have successfully found someone who cares about my mundane problems and will spend the time to resolve them, me.
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