How Writing Saved My Life

I opened up an old spiraled notebook. The pages were bent, the metal spine could barely hold the pages. The lines were drooping from a minor water spill.

I had to lick the pen. The ink was so dry. The pen was cracked. My hands were covered in ink.

I loved every second of it.

Dry pen on shitty paper, nothing better. I was breaking in the lines for the first time. Weary lines that were waiting for me. Time to meet my new best friend.

It didn’t care what I said. It didn’t critique my shitty poetry. It didn’t tell my lies, my secrets, and my visions to anyone. I didn’t have it in me to share it at the time.

Little did I know those first lines would be the start of my entire life.

It was here I found myself, the beginning of my truth, the first steps of my journey.

The first few moments were awful. I thought all the years of English class might do something to improve my sentence structure, or maybe my creativity. I was wrong.

I don’t remember what the first sentence said. But, I bet it was horrible. Everything we do for the first time is the worst thing imaginable.

If I was dead at the time it would make me roll over in my grave.

It’s not important how bad we are when we start. It’s important we trust ourselves enough to take the first step, no matter how small it may be. Start walking my friend.

For five years I never showed my work. I filled up journals, I hid them under my bed, and I threw them away.

No matter the content held within the spine, each journal saw its demise. I was writing as if I was concealing a secret. Exposing a part of myself the world wasn’t ready for, yet.

Through the gates of the pages I saw more of myself than I wanted to see. I felt something more real than my waking reality. I found something that was worth protecting.

I’m not here to tell you that writing has solved all of my problems, far from it.

But it has acted as a gateway for exploration, both into the world and into myself. The most valuable thread in the entire universe.

Without this I become lost. Or more likely, I get caught up. Without examination, disconnection and exploration I become tethered to the very things I’m trying to run away from.

Writing helps me to cultivate mindfulness. What usually comes out are the lessons I need to learn and pay attention to. So often, what we write for others ends up having the most impact on ourselves.

With that I raise a toast to shitty writing. Without you I’d be lost.

Thank you.