I couldn't bring my drooping and sagging head up to look at the world. My brain believed that I was truly a discarded item. Thus, the tug and pull between what I was or who I was residing as a heavy burden in my own soul.
I knew in my heart that my family loved me but it was the wrong kind of love to bring me up in such a degrading notion, and it destroyed my sanity. Physical abuse was one thing my body endured and healed. However, mental and verbal abuses stayed to manifest in my soul for years afterward.
I went through my teenager years concocting ways of suicidal, hid myself in a room, separated myself from the living, and depressed with the negative demon inside. Writing saved me as I could hide behind words, build fantasy, and drown in the world of my own imagination. No one needed to see me or know who I really was.
In its true sense, writing was an actual vehicle that drove me out of the ruin and rubble. It fueled my confident, it fed me the love that I craved for, even though it was just in my head, and it led me into a better path than all the negativity that surrounded my entire life. With writing, I re-created my world, my life, and my worth.
I became somebody behind the words I weaved, the story I wrote, and the poems of beautiful love. It was through writing that I shed layers and layers of negativity one bit at a time, and started to see myself as a capable person rather than what I was told I would be.
Thanks for READING!
(Listed in Mixed Memories Series)