Updated: Mar 27
An old typewriter, that was the spark to a greater fire. The burning soul of a writer ignited long before she had the gall to identify as such. She was me.
Soft-spoken, and wrought with the early stages of what would later be diagnosed as anxiety disorder, I would find myself the target of a bully’s rage for many years. Though I moved often I seemed to face the same trials at every new venue.
Bookish was often used to describe the odd way in which I avoided traditional childhood joys, preferring the quiet escape of a pen and paper or a well-bound book. I could travel away from my moments in the captivating words of J.K. Rowling. Even earlier I have memory of hours spent fervently writing a story coursing in my brain as I searched feverishly for new words to describe my experience.
Words came easy. I became addicted to the way they spiked the dopamine levels in my ADHD brain, knowing that I had achieved some new prized expression of thought. The ease and joy was the contrast to my solitude and stormy days. Growing up in a large family, I always had many loved ones around. This was a comfort allowing me to not miss the desire for outside comradery. My words, my home, it was all I needed.
As I aged I found myself struggling to communicate effectively with others in any way but writing. My shyness and lack of social skills left me gapped from normality. Writing then became a way to express and cope with the growing weights of depression and anxiety building in my soul.
Things would get worse before they got better. As I was overcome by the darkness of my mental illnesses, I left literature behind. I did not write. I did not read. I barely spoke unless painfully necessary. Since I was already quiet, many would not notice this change in me for a very long time. It took me years to overcome.
Today I write. Today I read again. My blog and Facebook page, The Poet Sky, are my way of not only coping for myself but a means of reaching others. I share my pain and joy and exuberance, in hopes that it shows others that in the waves of time where we live our lives we can always overcome the lows, surf the highs, and rejoice in still waters.
Waves of time crashing,
Once drowning me in its flow,
Now I surf its rising
Due to what I now know.
Fluidity has its moments.
Among them treacherous lows.
But with its movements
Difficulties always go.
Wait out the crashing storm
So you can surf the tide’s rise.
Still waters with a sun so warm
Will soon lay before your eyes.