On Finding Your Voice, How Writing Saved Me
As soon as I could pick up a crayon, I wrote words. I experienced horrific abuse from my mother and older brother. My father, buried in work, convinced himself that his only responsibility was to provide financial security. Did he know? I think so. And in the end, it may have been the thing that killed him. He died of cancer. But everyone dies of cancer, so what do I know?
With no one to save me but myself, I buried my soul in writing. I rewrote the stories that I loved, casting myself as the main character or creating a new beloved best friend character. As I grew older, I wrote out my pain in poetry. Many pieces were published in small art journals.
I’m self-taught, to be sure, but writing was my first language, mainly because it’s always been my only language. As I grew as a reader, my writing improved. I copied the voices of my favorite writers. They were my friends, my community, my writing group. In person, I freeze up. I don’t know what words go with which relationships. When I write, I put all of myself onto the page, leaving little for anyone else. I’m often great at the start of a relationship. I can even be charming, but it’s a parlor trick. Once the glow of newness starts to wane, so do I. I fade out or watch my relationships implode.
