was the first words I read today.
Okay, actually it’s not true. My first words to see when I woke up was “Snooze”.
Anyway I usually don’t go to WordPress in the mornings. Today I did and saw the title on DailyPost. I have been really new with the whole blogging thing, but not writing.
In many posts of mine before, I might have mentioned this story. I was bad at literature in schools. I was quite OK in primary school, but I guess it was because your mind was still free enough for free-flow creation. I got worse in junior high school and high school. It could be my incompetence. But I did know one among all reasons was how I acknowledged myself being forced to follow a pattern for composing, and how I was instructed to interpret a poem. I would never know if I would even be able to interpret at all without teacher’s guidance, but that’s the thing, I would never know.
So I thought literature and writing were not my things.
Towards the end of grade 10, I developed some mental exhaustion patterns. I was under many life change situations. And the fact that I am emotional, sensitive; just added extra strength onto everything. I stayed in my corner of the class. I didn’t want to talk to many people because they wouldn’t understand. But I did want their attention. I needed some attention. I needed people, especially my parents, to see how miserable I was, and give me a hug of empathy. I suppose I did get then, after going to the hospital twice as I was having severe headache, caused from exhaustion. I said “I supposed”, since I do not recall much, surprisingly, what happened but those high peaked notes.
In grade 11, I had to rebuild my path in a way. I began to wrap many unspoken things inside. I wanted to be more happy. That was my day job. When nights came, some old ghosts returned and I got pushed to do something about it. I needed to unload. And I did them on Word Docs. That was when my writing started.
That was a whole new writing habit. It was almost a diary but not so much. And it was not even perfect to be public. It was my words, the magical words which in a way, kept all my feelings within. They made me feel lighter. I supposed I found my most lotal friend. I started writing fictional stories, in which main characters were based on me. I gave up fake names, did some unrealistic touches, since back then, I got addicted to the power of controlling my stories. They were my stories, I wanted to give my characters whatever I felt like, or thought they deserved. As if I silently cried for such power in my real life.
It was not my daily habit. I continued them for quite long though. Here and there, whenever my heart shouted for air, I wrote. My stories never had happy endings though. Then I moved to Finland, during the first year, many many things changed. Among which was my break-up event with my high school boyfriend. It was one of the lightest breakups I have had, probably because I was the one doing it. This doesn’t mean it was easy. I suffered too. And I wrote things I could not tell him. I also wrote down things starting to change to me, outside me and inside me.
But I stopped for a period. Because I was at the same time writing other bigger chapters. I was re-writing my whole life, and re-discovering my new self.
I wrote again after London, the most influential event for me. This time, I did not write them as my stories, but my life stories. There were no more fictional characters, there was just me and levels of feelings after first time really falling in love. Remember, that kind of love which drove you madly, without even realising your true core anymore? If you have not had any, don’t worry, I assure there is no joy in the experience.
Nevertheless, these stories, together with those fictional stories, were never published or shown to anyone. They were my dairies, except I did not write them daily or start with “dear diary“. They were my hobby too, a hobby I only share with few certain people; until the Tumblr blog trial and this blog. I couldn’t say it was not awkward at first, since showing people my writing was nearly telling them the most private parts of me. Even so, after years of writing, my need for being listened got curious. I started to wonder what it would be like to bring these unshaped and unpolished writing to a big community out there.
Here I am. So now, I have two writings, I have my diary and I have my blog. My diary is for deepest things in the bottom of my inner self. And my blog allows me to voice out my world perspectives. I try to keep my blog updated weekly, try very hard. Some weeks went easier, such as this past week, writing flow hit me and I opened my laptop, or picked up my pencil. I don’t have huge network of followers, but every single one who has followed me, I felt I achieved something. Writing is my therapy. Whenever a piece of writing is done, I can sense a satisfaction of doing something useful, despite me unsure how many people would have seen or even read that. I would put them on my blog still, and feel pleasant enough to hope 0,01% of all readers out there who might read my writing and have a connection. Because that’s what has happened to me often. I read other people’s writing, just to see myself reflecting on my own or being in the other person’s shoes. My emotions are evoked, and as sometimes writing can be an act of loneliness too (at least for me), I’d like to comment, let the person know “I hear you“or “God, I feel you!“
Most importantly, writing is my freedom, is a world in which I don’t have to obtain this degree to be accepted and don’t have to sound smart all the time to be heard.