Books Were My Escape: Writing My Saviour

Flint & Steel Full Circle Writing Challenge

“There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.” — Maya Angelou (I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings (Maya Angelou’s Autobiography, #1))

Reading for me was as easy as breathing. As soon as I could read, I had my nose firmly in a book. I would walk around in a world of my own, created by someone else. These beautiful, vibrant worlds are a million miles from my own experience.

A childhood of pain and shame was forgotten as I poured myself into places where little girls didn’t have to pretend to sleep. Or hold their breath while counting the steps hoping they would stop at another room. Instead, books became a safe place of wonder and joy, the words dancing across the page. I used books to forget and pretend I was someone else. A girl bravely stepping through the wardrobe into the snowy land beyond or someone strong and brave. I consumed books spending many a day curled up in a chair at the library or on the floor of charity shops. Words were such a comfort to me that writing seemed like the next step.

I tried to write a few times through my teens, only getting so far before my internal voice told me I would never be good enough. I would give up, convinced they were right; why would anyone want to read it anyway? Books worked to comfort me while writing hurt as if the words were forcing themselves out of me. The intensity scared me; the story was there bubbling up under the surface, begging to be set free.

I stopped trying, convinced it was for the best. My brain niggling at me, I fed it more books to distract it. Consuming all the words, drifting off to the worlds that fed my soul and kept me safe. I continued that way for the longest time drifting between fantasy and reality. I knew it would come to a head, but I didn’t know how to change.

During EMDR therapy, I realised I had to find a way to let these words out. So I started to write again. This time the gloves were off. I let all the words I was always scared to say flow. There was no putting the genie back in the bottle, so I had to move forward.

I poured my soul out onto each page. Filling each page full of my hurt, pain, and anger. Each time I thought there couldn’t possibly be anything left, I was proved wrong every time. Time passed, and with each day, it got a little easier. To the point, I found myself excited to sit down and write and looked forward to that point in my day.

I realise how important it is to speak your truth. The strength it takes to lay your soul bare for all to see is immense. Feeling scared but doing it anyway, choosing to be vulnerable when every part of you screams no. That’s powerful.

I no longer feel like that scared little girl, angry teenager, or ashamed adult. Writing saved me. It gave me a way out, the ability to become myself. Writing helped me understand how my tragic past did not define me. I get to choose who I want to be.

Will writing be the way you find yourself? Maybe not, but find a healthy way you articulate your pain; you owe that to yourself.

This article came from a spark from Ellie Jacobson via this link. Deb Fiore maybe a little spark on your journey to writing every day?