Pictured are filled with all the things I was left to make sense of after watching four years of my life dissipate. A four-year relationship and a six-year friendship. In them, are quotes to get me by, good things I wanted to remember, and bad things I wanted to never forget happened. They are filled with the thoughts I desperately jotted down in the rare moments that everything was clear. Because I’d never know when it would come again. Because most of my time was clouded. Clouded with all the horrible things I am. All the reasons why I wasn’t enough. All the answers to why someone would be in such a rush to leave.
Writing was my desperate attempt to hold onto every bit that was left of me. I’d carry my journals to class, or set it on my desk at work. I even carried them across the ocean. Whenever my thoughts came, I jotted them down as fast as I could. Because like people, I didn’t want them to leave.
But there comes a time when you know that you are alone with your thoughts. You are the one that lays with them at night. The person who left is no longer here. Your therapist can’t come home with you. Your friends eventually run out of things to say. Your family is hurting too. And his family is no longer yours. You are your only savior. And thoughts are your only enemy.
So I then began writing in order to make a deal to befriend them. I was lonely, hurt, tired, and brimming with emotions that would make me sick to my stomach. I had my pen as my witness and my paper as my ears. And slowly, I would make it through. I’d learn to write good things about myself. Happy things about my life. Even good things about him. And eventually, forgiveness for all that has happened.
Sometimes I feel insecure about what I write & what I share. Because people have a naked look at my life. Because vulnerability might get annoying. But I write, not for the pity, I write because it is the closest thing to visualizing my soul. I write because I heal when my words are lifted onto paper. I write because I thoroughly enjoy sculpting each sentence by stringing them word by word. It’s like dancing to me. Because to me, it is art. It is something I lay awake doing. It is something I do on paper, on my laptop, in my head, out loud, wherever I go.
I write to be the person I needed when I needed them most. I write in hopes that even if only one person cares to read it, it does something for them like others have done for me. When life is at its lowest, and you’ve got nowhere left to turn. That little, tiny string of hope, that someone understands and they made it through, means everything. So if you like to write, write. If you like to read, read. Words and stories are beautiful. Life is too short to not hear them.
With Love & Warm Hugs,