I write because sometimes the words are too painful to utter

Sometimes the only way to release the pain, the grief, the tragedy is to face it, head on – a good ole’ fashion stare down

I write because the only way to take back my power is by empowering my words

Marking my territory, staking my claim, grabbing hold of life with both hands to the keyboard

I write because to not write is to lose a part of myself

To keep myself whole, I must give a portion of it away for the world to engage with

I write because I’m a masochist

It’s a process of self-imposed torture that is oddly gratifying when complete

I write because I have a story living on the inside of me

Fighting, scratching, begging to escape the confines of my mind

I write because I can

I write and I write and I write . . .

 

Writing was never my favorite subject in school.  I was much more comfortable with the objective, right or wrong, qualities of mathematics. Math is predictable, ordered, follows rules, isn’t left up to “interpretation.” Math is logical, objective, easily mastered. Math was exactly like the life I wished that I had, but nothing like the life that I was living.

 

Writing. Writing was messy. Writing was subjective. Writing was emotional. Writing opened you up to judgment. Writing was unpredictable, full of exceptions, muddled. Writing reminded me of the chaos of home because it was only when I was in the eye of the storm that I would put pen to paper.

 

My yellow legal pad was my trusted confidant. It was my place of refuge, my sanctuary, my hiding place. The only one to whom I could tell my secrets. It was the one who could hold all the stories that I was too scared to utter out loud. The stories that I wish we’re part of some teen fiction dramatic horror series, but they were really the drama that was my true life.

 

The pages of my yellow legal pad, stuffed deep into the lining of my brown foam chair, were wavy from the multitude of tears that they had to hold along with all of the painful truths of my life. Truths that couldn’t be trusted to anyone else. The truth of the addiction that had completely stolen my parents’ ability to be parents. The truth of the dysfunctional way of living that had become our new normal. The truth of the abuse that had completely destroyed my sense of self-worth and self-esteem. The truth that fear was my constant companion because of the violence that I had witnessed and felt. The truth that I was contemplating suicide because I couldn’t figure out any other way of escape. The truth that I was failing to protect my sister from hurt that I had hoped she’d never have to experience. The truth that I wasn’t the person that people thought that I was and my life wasn’t the life that people thought I lived. The truth that I was drowning in an ocean of turmoil.

 

Fast-forward 25 years and here I am . . . writing . . . again.  I’m still telling biographical tales, but they don’t just live in my private journal anymore. They are shared on a much more public tablet. Instead of stories of pain and hurt, I’m able to narrate grand accounts of peace and healing. My truth today is that God has taken me from turmoil to triumph. I am no longer that scared and scarred little girl with no self-esteem and no feeling of self-worth. I am now a redeemed and restored woman of God – confident in who I am in Christ. Because of the love of Jesus, I am able to really live the life that I desired as an adolescent. I am able to write of things that I couldn’t imagine two decades ago.

 

Writing still feels subjective, unpredictable, emotional and messy – qualities that are still uncomfortable for me. But I know it’s what God wants me to be doing during this season of my life. I can only assume that this is God’s own particular brand of therapy. It’s allowing me to be free and is helping to set others free in the process. And so . . . I write.