From darkness to words
Writing Saved My Life
The power of pen, paper, and passing notes in class
Trigger Warning: Suicide.
My writing journey began when I was seven. I’m not a best-selling author, nor am I trying to be. I never used to write every single day anyway or read tons of books, but when I did, it was therapeutic — freeing.
I always felt like I was unfolding tales, not only of my life on the exterior but also uncovering the deep thoughts behind them — my deep, dark secrets guarded only by my pages.
Writing is like that long-lost love — every time I go back to it, it’s as if it never left. I pick up where I left off, reconnect, escape, have fun. From passing notes in elementary school to keeping diaries adorned with locks, eager to come home just to relive how my day went — the highs and lows of my innocent little life.
As a young girl, since I can remember, I have always carried a notebook, gel pens, and a coloring book. They were my true source of creativity and entertainment before smartphones came about. That’s the beauty of my childhood — I actually got to have one without portable technology constantly in front of my face. There were no distractions besides the television, no filters, no comparisons, and no such thing as “FOMO” (Fear Of Missing Out).
Yes, I’m a millennial.
In middle school, my life became overwhelmingly lonely. You know, that awkward pre-teen stage where you daydream about running away, starting over, creating your own new life story inside the empty pages. I know I did.
Little did I know that I was manifesting the life I desired. I was an only child with divorced parents. I didn’t have siblings until I was thirteen. It meant two birthdays, two Christmases, two Thanksgivings, and summer vacations with my dad. So, I had a lot to write about.
I recently found a bunch of letters and notes from old classmates, and I came across one in particular: a reply from my childhood friend to a note I had sent her prior.
In that four-page letter — yes, front and back! — we delved into the topic of suicide. The first thought that crossed my mind was how incredibly young we were, discussing death and contemplating the idea of ending our lives. We were twelve!
At that time, we hadn’t realized that everything has a way of working itself out. We didn’t know that ‘this too shall pass’ and that everything was going to be okay. One part of the letter in response to me was:
“I can’t believe what I’m going to write but here it is. Ok I tried killing myself one day. But I wonder is that the way to end my problems? We both have our whole lives ahead of us. Maybe something good will come out of this. If I ever died would anyone ever be upset?”
I’d like to clarify that this friend who wrote me this note is alive and well. Out of curiosity, I looked her up on social media. I never mentioned the details in the letter, but she did remember passing notes with me in class, which was pretty cool. I like to think that maybe we saved each other from doing something stupid; perhaps writing about it helped.
And while reading all the old notes, letters, and cards, I reflected on how I wrote to all these people and how they replied to me. I don’t write letters anymore, barely, but I do write to myself a lot. My lonely childhood and everything I went through have inspired me to write.
Even the books that people would leave on NYC sidewalks (old and brand new), which my father would pick up on his route when he used to work for FedEx and give to me, helped me with my stuttering, vocabulary, and fueled my drive to write. I would read and wonder what my life would be like if I were the characters in those books.
Today, as a 34-year-old woman, I have dedicated myself to nurturing that drive and never letting it go.
Writing has saved me in many ways, being the only thing I turn to when life gets shitty at times or when it’s going really well. It’s my way of celebrating life. It’s a cathartic escape that allows me to embrace my truest self and find comfort among life’s challenges.
It’s also cheaper than therapy when mental health wasn’t really discussed or considered a significant issue back then.