How Writing Saved My Lifecsudhbulletin April 20, 2021 0 COMMENTS
Grabbing a journal and a pencil is the first step in becoming a writer. Photo by Skyler Belmonte
By Skyler Belmonte, Staff Reporter
Noise. I never knew how to silence the piercing noise. My pillows were not thick enough to shield my innocent ears from the screaming echoing down the hall. My own thoughts were too loud- I was desperate for peace. For silence. I needed something, anything to comfort me, to love me, to listen to me. In the midst of angry voices constantly at war, I was voiceless and alone.
Eager for an answer to my prayers, there it was- a pink journal with purple, glittery butterflies, and a yellow wooden number 2 pencil. That was the ladder to my simple dream of having peace. I remember loving the smell of the burning rubber eraser sliding across my paper, ridding away of all mistakes. Writing was easy for me because it taught me some mistakes can be resolved with a simple solution. Writing was and continues to be the reason I am alive. The reason I can now understand the definition of peace.
Venting to someone has never been easy for me. As a person who writes daily for her own pleasure and sanity, I find it difficult to tell someone how I feel. My voice fails me, but my words save me. I encourage those who struggle with the same issue, to try writing how and what caused you to feel the way you do. You may unleash a passion that was itching to be released.
Everyone can be great at something. However, loving that something is what makes you great.
Radiant and award-winning poet, Maya Angelou once said, “People will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.”
Giving myself the opportunity to explore and discover the power that writing possesses has taught me to be careful with the words I choose to utter when I am angry or upset because, with every regretful word, a scar is engraved onto my listener. I am cautious of the words I say because I remember being a child desperate for peace and for an escape from hurtful words being said to me.
I prefer to write my emotions and trust my own thoughts as I escape and get lost in my diary, than to pay a therapist. I trust my pencil will guide me in finding wise solutions to my problems. I am confident that the blue lines on my paper will keep me on track to finding clarity and peace.
Very little of my life thus far has been spent not writing. At eight years old, I was awakened with a passion that I grew to love more than I could have ever imagined.
When people ask me why I love to write, why I feel so passionate about something many people dread- I always answer, we can all die for something or for someone that we love. But, I choose to live for my love of writing. I choose to live with the idea that my words have the power to save a life, including my own. The idea of being able to write another day, another second, tickles my spine and pumps blood into my body in a way a human or organ never could. Sounds creepy and a bit crazy, right? When you find something you want to live more than you want to die for, treasure it. You will then understand how I feel.
Effortlessly, writing positively consumed my life. I could bore you with the woeful details of my childhood. I could try my best to victimize myself and gain your pity and earn your sympathy. But, my diaries are already drowning with my sorrows. I would rather share how I loved to write stories about a courageous prince who traveled by foot and slept in rivers to hide from enemies because he resembled my father who immigrated to America from Mexico. I would rather tell you about the story I wrote in fourth grade about a warrior princess who slayed a ferocious dragon who burned and scarred her pure body at a young age because she resembled my mother, the survivor. I would rather share how writing was and forever will be my truths disguised in stories.
Until I write a novel, my life’s mission will not be complete.
Perhaps my destiny is to encourage others to join me in this creative realm and get lost in the wonders of writing.