Remarkably Me

When I was around twelve years old my mom and I found an early 2000’s era PC at a garage sale. It was bulky in shape and almost too heavy to carry in my feeble arms as I hauled it back to the car. I was so proud I bought my first computer all by myself for only a dollar! It was the ugliest dark green I had ever seen, but I was awestruck. It had no internet capabilities and all I could do was type on Notepad. That didn’t bother me, I was absolutely giddy with excitement to have something I could type my stories onto. I felt like an official author with my very own computer. I loved it so much I gave her a name: Bubbles. Bubbles was a hard working computer. I typed the days away and played Minesweeper for hours on end, until one day she wouldn’t turn on again and crashed for good.

At school I would sit in the back of the class with folders of scattered stories and character outlines. My friends, always itching to read the next bit of my writing, would ask if I had made enough progress for them to read more whenever they saw a pen in my hand. I was also terribly picky about my pens, and I still am. An affliction I've noticed amongst many writers. The ink needed to flow satisfyingly smooth from my pen onto the paper, outlining the racing thoughts inside my head, then bleeding together to create a story I could call my own. I wanted to create something I could show to others with the hopes that I had written well enough for them to be able to see the pictures in my head, too. It gave me a sense of pride, of purpose even, to have my friends read my stories. It was like giving them a glimpse into my brain, which to me was a deeply intimate thing to give someone a glimpse into.

Writing was how I coped with being alive. I wanted other people to feel what I was feeling, and by writing it down I felt like I was able to express that in ways I couldn't otherwise. The best example I can give is when my grandpa died. I wanted the reader to feel the pain that I felt, because only then, I believed, would anyone understand what I was going through. I wanted the reader to feel the lump in my throat that wouldn’t go away and the squeezing in my chest that made it hard to breathe. I wanted them to be there with me as my eight-year-old self sat behind the cold glass of my bedroom window waiting for him to come back, searching for the blue hue of his truck every time a car drove by, and the way my body felt as I collapsed with grief when I realized he really wasn’t coming back. By writing about him I felt like I could keep him alive. We are all immortal when we are written into the stories of those who are still alive, and I really needed him to still be with me.

"Some write for fun others write because if they didn't the words would grow and fester and burst from the seams of their souls. Some words are safer down on paper." ~ Atticus

All of those beliefs shattered one pivotal day when my dad asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. I already knew, of course, I had always known. I wanted to be a writer, I told him with my head held high and pride in my posture. He scoffed at me and my smile broke. I remember furrowing my brows at him and pouting my lip, trying to keep the ache out of my chest as if he were actually tearing a piece of myself away. Then, he made the statement that changed my life. He said to me that writing wasn’t a real career, that I’d never make any money doing it, and that no one would read my writing. He told me I had to get a “real job”. I was angry with him at the time, but I didn’t know I carried his words with me until much later. His words were not harsh, though they did lack emotion. He said it so matter-of-factly I don’t even think he knew he stripped me of any sense of self or purpose after that. What little girl doesn't want their dad to be proud of them?

So, I started paying more attention in science class. I put the folders and the papers and the fancy pens away and started trying to find interest in other subjects. I still loved to read, so I lived through the stories that other authors wrote, like Harry Potter. J.K. Rowling created a world I could immerse myself in, which was helpful as I no longer found joy in my own reality. I continued to keep my journal and write down my feelings as they came, but the stories were gone and the entries were few and far between. My mind didn’t burst with ideas or plot lines. My friends said goodbye to their favorite characters as I erased them and put my pens away. I began looking for jobs, and when I turned nineteen the opportunity to work as a Youth Counselor for troubled kids came, and I jumped at it. I was excited to feel like I had a “real" job. I barely wrote about my excitement at the opportunity.

My first day I wanted to quit. I had no idea what I had gotten into. There were kids running off the dorm, biting staff, and screaming profanities I’d never dreamed of uttering at their age. I was terrified, but I stuck it out. The fear that pierced my heart was soon replaced with compassion that swelled in my chest. My voice that once shook became solid and firm. I built relationships with the youth as I learned how to work with them. They reminded me so much of myself, but they were hurting and didn't have the skills to express themselves in a healthy way. Thankfully the facility had in-depth training on how trauma affects the brain and how to de-escalate crisis situations. Through both hands-on and classroom-style training, I eventually became a supervisor and built a career out of the experience I gained. I showed kids, who had been hurt by the people they love, what safety and consistency feels like. It was an exhilarating feeling to help someone through their most dangerous thoughts and feelings. I thought I had found my most authentic self here, being the calm in the storm and the voice in the chaos.

I withdrew from my college classes, feeling a need to throw myself into the work I was doing and take time off academically. Then, before I knew it, seven years had gone by. I guess time flies when you're constantly surrounded by chaos and trauma. I didn't stay at the same facility; I moved around to a youth shelter, a corrections facility for kids, and a mental health based crisis center. I became the supervisor at every job I had because I had gotten so good at what I was doing. Create structure, de-escalate crises, build relationships, maintain safety. I even got to help open a brand new crisis facility. I built a life and career around the “real job” I thought I wanted, and I am beyond proud of myself for the work I put into this field and the youth I have helped. But, when the doors opened to the brand new facility, I felt as empty as the vacant rooms. I continued working in the residential unit and was once again creating structure, de-escalating kids in crisis, maintaining safety, and building relationships. It’s all the same work, just a different facility. The same things I that had burnt me out in other jobs were beginning to burn me out here. I realized it wasn’t the previous jobs that wore me out, it’s the whole field.

I needed something to get me through the rough days, so I started a blog. I bought myself a new laptop, faster and with more capabilities by far than what my Bubbles could do, but the nostalgia still sticks. I began to believe writing could still be how I coped with being alive. I started with short fictional stories about emotions I was experiencing and exaggerating situations I was finding myself in. Sometimes I’d add dragons to keep it interesting, and then adding posts that took on a more nonfiction and educational stand. I wrote about how to make candles and read Tarot cards, I wrote about things that interested me and that I wanted to teach people about. These things brought the passion back. I looked forward to when I could come home and sit in front of my laptop to write a story. It was my escape from the life I had suddenly felt was drowning me. Soon, I found Vocal and now I have spent so much more time writing than I have in years. I can express myself again in ways I haven't allowed myself to since before college.

In the last seven years, I thought about going back to school many times, before I began writing again. I met myself at a stalemate every time. I didn’t want to study psychology only to then be stuck in the field that I kept burning out in, but I didn’t want to go to school for English only to never make any money. Until finally, that clicked. Who said I wouldn’t make money writing? Oh yeah, my dad. He didn’t know all those years ago how many jobs I would be able to find that would allow me to write for a living. A weight lifted off of my shoulders when I realized that was what had been keeping me back, and a fork that kept blocking my road was cleared as I began making new plans for my future.

"Sometimes it's like driving through fog. You can't really see where you're going. You have just enough of the road in front of you to know that you're probably still on the road, and if you drive slowly and keep your headlamps lowered you'll still get where you were going.

And that's hard while you're doing it, but satisfying at the end of a day like that, where you look down and you got 1500 words that didn't exist in that order down on paper, half of what you'd get on a good day, and you drove slowly, but you drove.

And sometimes you come out of the fog into clarity, and you can see just what you're doing and where you're going, and you couldn't see or know any of that five minutes before. ~Neil Gaiman

Neil Gaiman does a great job of describing how I felt the last seven years of my life. I was driving through fog, unsure if I was even still on the road, until one day the fog lifted and I knew exactly how my story would continue.

The day I submitted my application for admission to college as an English Major was the day my eyes shined a little brighter, my coffee tasted sweeter, and my heart beat a little stronger. I submit to Vocal challenges to become a better writer, to put my words out into the world, and to prove my dad wrong. I can create a fulfilling life around writing and doing what makes me happy. All this time I was helping kids cope with their childhood trauma, I never acknowledged that those words from my dad were some of my own trauma. I feel more myself than I ever have with a pen in my hand and a blank sheet of paper. The ideas are endless and the uncertainty of what comes next is the most exciting part of all. Some dreams come true a little later I guess, and that’s okay. I found my most authentic self, and I found it in the smell of old books and the sound of keys clicking on a keyboard. I get to write what comes next in my story.