Writing, light, and hope

I remember why I first started to write. I was around 14 or so. It helped me make sense of myself back then. It was lonely growing up in that house. I was kind of a black sheep. Moody, depressed, and irritable. Back then emotions were felt and difficult to put into words. Over time I’ve found the words, but the original emotion sometimes becomes harder to find — lost, forgotten.

Writing helped me find my voice when I didn’t have one. I didn’t have one because I hadn’t developed it yet. But another reason I didn’t have one was because I just grew up feeling pretty unseen. The home I grew up in was unhappy and filled with conflict. Alliances were formed. I was grouped in the alliance with my dad. It was a lonely alliance. Filled with criticisms, cynicism, thoughts like you’re always making mistakes, I can’t believe you said that, etc. He was difficult but trying his best.

I feel sad for that kid. She was just scared and alone and trying to figure stuff out. I think writing gave her a sense of connection to others. It helped process and make sense of the world. It also somehow brought a sense of hope and comfort. Through writing, I discovered something inside myself. A light. The thinnest, smallest ray of it.

That kid was really sad and at one point really wanted to die. At some point, she got really serious about that. Writing was a reason to live. It is what helped to discover the light, but also to follow it, to put one foot in front of the other in some of the hardest times. I think I figured back then that if I was in the pit of hell at least it could be documented, and perhaps someone would understand.

Someone eventually did; I ended up marrying him. Of course, as longtime readers know, it didn’t work out and there was another period in which something different was needed to find the light. Something bigger than myself.

With writing, I’ve never found it fully satisfying to simply write in a private journal. Somehow it helps to know others are reading. I think this is because of that feeling of connection, that feeling of discovery, that as I am writing, I am connecting, not just with myself but you. There is an authenticity here, a realness. This realness can only be discovered through time writing and connecting in oneself, and with someone relating back. It seems like such a simple thing — writing — but it is really what led to me writing this and to you reading this in this moment now. When you really think about it, I find this really beautiful.

Sometimes we think of having to interact physically with someone to impart something to them, but I think that the truth is that connection can transcend this — whether through words, art, a piece, etc — there is some transmittal of emotion and mood, and then ultimately, connection.

Ultimately, perhaps this is what life is about — this sense of connection. To ourselves, to who we really are, to our true selves, to others, to nature, to something larger, to the essence of life itself. It is this longing to know that our lives matter and are part of something greater.

I guess that was a long winded way of saying, thank you for reading. I don’t know who you are or what you’ve been through, but I’m grateful for you. You didn’t even know it but your existence kept me going all these years. So you see, we matter in ways we don’t even see or know.