How writing saved my life, a journey

Do you know what it is to feel like you’re drowning? Your lungs are filling up with water, you’re forgetting how to breath, everything is slowing down and you’re running out of time. That is, without exaggeration, how I felt for the most part of my life. And the worst part of it was, I couldn’t reach out to anyone. I had people who would tell me they were only a phone call away, that all I had to do was give them a ring, and as reassuring as it was, a part of me knew I wouldn’t be able to do so. Although my mind had pledged to never be silenced, to think aloud at all times, yet I was at a loss for words.

So, alike the majority of us, I too constantly tried to push my thoughts away, busy myself elsewhere and at times, even invalidate or belittle my own bad experiences. I had a witless coping mechanism and that was to think; if I didn’t acknowledge something out loud, it wouldn’t be real. Little did I realize it sure as hell was and all of these experiences were here to stay. That is, until I picked up a pen and a paper!

This is the story of how writing became my greatest and at times, only refuge (and it can be yours too).

I was the stereotypical kid who kept a journal in which every entry began with the phrase ‘Dear Diary’. I wrote about everything that happened on any day. My diary entries would sometimes be the result of juvenile fury directed at either my parents or fear of something horrifying happening to my family (my grandmother had recently passed away and my childish belief of being immortal had been broken). In any case, I didn’t think much of it and discontinued journaling as I approached my teenage years, merrily when I needed it the most.

I still vividly recall the night I first ripped off a paper from a notebook sitting on my desk and wrote the words, ‘I think my heart is breaking’, as uncontrollable tears streamed down my cheeks and onto the rendered page. I felt as though my rib cage was made up of glass and a few shards were stuck into my lungs, making it difficult to breath or even, exist. Life ended and began again for me countless times in those moments. Unfortunately, that was the only sentence fourteen-year-old me could muster up the courage to write and yet it gave me an unfamiliar sense of solace as if an unspoken silence had finally been broken. I had finally understood and accepted to myself that I was hurting, and that was my first step taken towards healing; admitting that something was indeed wrong.

Now that I think about it, I find it rather ironic that the moment in which I was at my worst, when I felt the most worthless and shattered was somehow also my breakthrough moment. I wouldn’t lie and say that the memory of that time is all unicorns and lollipop, as a matter of fact, it is quite contemporary. To this day, it invokes a sense of melancholy inside me, and that is because it was the beginning of a prolonged depressive episode. Each day after that one seemed more dragged and pointless than the last. It wasn’t that I felt particularly sad, it was that I felt nothing. Numbness at its best. Everything that used to previously intrigue the spark of interest in me, had now become a chore and all my smiles were meaningless. Throughout the day, I would put up a façade of being the old me because of the fear of worrying anyone or seeming too much of a ‘burden’. It was only at night, before I fell to sleep, that I allowed myself to put off the mask I had been wearing the entire day and feel human. To put in a single sentence, I was a mess, and I didn’t know what, or if anything could make me feel better, especially on days when I felt the only way out would be to give up on dear life.

Now this is where the plot twist happens, during this era of unending darkness, I had to attend evening classes at an institution after school. And in the waiting time before classes started, I would occupy some space at the back of the class and let my thoughts run wild. I would open up a spare notebook that I had and write about every thought that crossed my mind. The chattering noises surrounding me gradually faded away, leaving just my train of thoughts to be heard. Each time that I heard the bell ring (a signal that the class was about to start) in my ears, I would put away my notebook, find myself back in reality and somehow lighter, which is all I could have asked for. I felt as one would, sitting on a deserted beach, in the middle of a windy day; with not a worry in the world and all the freedom that I could ask for.

To wrap it all up, writing helped me understand the seemingly insane melancholic thoughts that I had convinced myself to believe, no one would ever be able to comprehend, including myself. It was a method of catharsis that swooped me up in its arms and allowed me to be heard without having to say anything. Needles to say, ink filled pages have been my very best friend ever since. Bleeding out through ink has become a part of my existence that no one can take away from me and I will eternally be grateful for.

If you’re going through something similar, trust me when I advise you to pick up a pen and write. You are not Shakespeare (and that is okay); therefore, it doesn’t have to be poetic, dramatic, or beautiful in any manner. Instead, embrace your humanity and tenderness. Allow yourself to be messy, chaotic, and as indignant as you can be through your words, slam all your thoughts out there; it will work miracles. Healing begins with courage and acceptance, both of which writing can undoubtedly provide. I can’t promise that it’ll put an end to your suffering, but it might be the shoulder that you so desperately need to lean on but won’t ever ask for.