Writing is a safe haven to me. It’s a place where I can just pour my heart – emotions, feelings, and contents – out onto paper. I am not really good with talking; in fact my childhood nickname is Tahimik because I’m not like most of the kids back then who smidle & gigglde prettily or those who emitted brightness within them. Nope, I’m pretty sure darkness and shadows were the things I emitted haha!
And I heard stories from my relatives like if you leave me in a certain place, I’ll still be there if you come back hours ago and that I don’t really need playmates because I am contented playing alone. But my family were the ones who can bring the silly kid within me that others just couldn’t. I smiled and gigdgle prettily for them, effortlessly.
My first piece was written when things were not good between my mother and father. I don’t talk to people and the ones that I can turn to were busy fighting, and that’s when I learned to write. Because paper and ink were the things that bother to hear me when people I trust turned their backs on me.
I learned to talk to people, eventually. I made friends and I forgot writing. There are actual people who can hear me, why write? Until I had things that I can’t talk about even with my friends, until I reached high school and my mother made it official that I was old enough to live my life and left me at her sister’s house. I write again. But it’s high school, the phase where everyone has an opinion on how and who you should be, “if you weren’t so quiet…, if you could just join”, I know, I know, they were just trying to make me feel belonged or at least they thought I would be happy, or maybe they thought I was sad in the first place, well I was. But I made good friends, I even found my best friends there, but I still filled an entire notebook of things I can’t talk to them. It wasn’t their fault, I know that they would listen, it’s just I wasn’t sure if I can speak about it.
But writing is not always a place of solace, sometimes it’s my ghost in worded form, my monsters confirming that they are real, my enemy. I find myself ripping from pages to pages when reading the things I wrote are becoming too much to handle. When I can see my anger spilled out on pages, and I can’t bear to look at all that rage. It’s sometimes a pain I couldn’t stand.
But it helps me way more than it hurts me. And writing will always be a friend and a family to me. Always.
*disclaimer: I’m not a writer, well yeah I write but it’s kind of different thing being called/recognized as one …