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kafkaesque-philocalist · 2 years ago

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Every journey has a beginning: mine just happens to start with the STAAR test in 4th grade. The State of Texas Assessment of Academic Reading for 4th graders had a required writing portion alongside the usual math and reading tests; that year the topic had been about a time when we’d done something we weren’t supposed to. Normally you were supposed to have a rough draft before the final essay but the entire previous semester proved that I not only space out too much but that I’m a slow writer. Anything I wrote had to be precise and the best I could possibly do. The entire writing portion had to have been 2 hours, but I poured my heart and souls into each word. That year I scored one of the highest writing scores of my class.

Writing remained one of my favorite hobbies through the rest of elementary school, with simple poems and short stories born out of the beauty I saw around me. Unfortunately in sixth grade, my relationship with writing changed. For years unbeknownst to me I’d been struggling with ADHD to the point of having gaps in my memory of my childhood; my mother hadn’t gotten me tested because it hadn’t impacted my school work. Paired with hormonal changes and higher expectations during that year I began showing signs of depression and struggling with an unknown illness. I regularly got lunch detention for forgetting assignments or not being able to pay attention, only furthering my lack of self worth.

That year began an era of writing that reflected how I felt. Even after sixth grade ended and I was finally diagnosed with adhd, I continued to lean on writing as a way to express myself in my highly mentally ill state.

It was during my math class sophomore year that I wrote the first chapter of a story I thought up. A girl named Sawyer has a breakdown after a friend of hers leaves, complete with at least 3 separate moments she cries, breaking lots of glass, breaking her finger, and trying to establish control over her life by dying her hair. I later wrote a couple other chapters that highlighted toxic family dynamics, being betrayed by those you trust and a suicide. As dark and angsty as it was it was freeing to have it out in the world and on a page instead of just in my head. That same year I’d go on to write poems detailing the monster that was losing my cousin to suicide and what it was like having to put down a pet right after school. Junior year I wrote a short story inspired by the songs Prom Queen by Beach Bunny and Prom Dress by M(squiggly). The sick feeling of waiting for a party to be over in the bathroom before walking home to breakdown alone, I lived that emotionally.

the pain I felt after moving to Arizona and realizing that I didn’t have friends now, the suffering of others around me, the suicides my sophomore year, I wrote all about it. Being so socially anxious, this was one of the few ways I could express myself in a healthy way until after my public education.

It was around senior year that my writing finally transformed again. From an oxygen tank to a breeze it became brighter, something that wasn’t totally tormented, but reflected the bittersweet nature of life. Things like Pink Lemonade and Older Sister were able to show more complex emotions such as love between family.

During quarantine- 2021 to be specific- I was given the opportunity to actually write a poetry book with a publisher. Months earlier I’d experienced a tragedy resulting in the development of PTSD and having to quit my job because of the stress. Every day for a month I’d write a poem that they’d compile into said book. I poured my heart and soul into it, titling it 19 in April for the groundbreaking age I became that year and my emotions growing up. Even though I haven’t made money off of it, writing it was the most cathartic expression of myself I’d done during COVID.

Writing has always been a means of escape and later reflection of my internal world. Through several of my mental illnesses it was my saving grace allowing me to accurately show others how I was doing. I’ve been able to explore the vast inner world of myself and watch the effects of aging and time have on the psyche.

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kafkaesque-philocalist · 2 years ago

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Confessions in April

I can still remember the knee jerk reaction I’d had when a man named Daniel texted me if I wanted to hangout that Saturday. I’d just broken up with my previous boyfriend turned missionary the week before and thought why not date around, it’s not serious or anything, right? Daniel was good looking and we’d had the same interests so it couldn’t hurt; besides he was my exes’ brother’s friend so I should be able to trust him. Even with the knot forming in my gut, I said yes. It was every single day he’d bring me to his house and try to convince me have sex. I was so naive as an 18 year old, I honestly believed that when you say no it meant no. How foolish of me!

Staring at the stormy carpet in the low lit office of my therapist, I told her about a writing challenge I thought would help me come to terms with that day in November. She said she loved that idea, it’d allow me a good space to finally see where I was with everything. She also wanted to see what I wrote to make sure I didn’t ruminate too much. We both didn’t want a repeat of what happened when hypnosis came up a couple weeks prior.

Like all good things in this modern era, I’d found BookLeaf Publishing’s Write Your Heart Out challenge on Instagram among the selfies and Elf makeup ads. For it, participants had to write a poem each day for 20 days which they would then publish, specifying that they would need a payment of $50 beforehand. Days earlier I’d put in my 2 weeks at FedEx without a backup job in the works at the advice of my family and therapist, and would very soon not have an income. Sitting in the four grey corners of my room on the white island of my bed I thought. My mental health had taken a turn for the worst after a date at a guy's house months prior. With my limited money, was it worth spending that much on such a luxury? Was the thought of showing the world my story worth possibly getting scammed?

Yes.

The last day to register was May 12, 2021 giving me breathing room between my last day and the start of the challenge to think. Days felt like years during that period, forcing my mind to relive the moments I’d blocked off for months for the artistic cause of writing my pain. I thought a lot about the times I told him no and that I didn’t want to the entire week prior to the event. Much like when I’d gotten into therapy earlier that year, I self-isolated. And yet writing during the competition was so much worse psychologically.

That competition was the first time in all my years of writing that I did not want to face my agony. The faces of my cousins saying their last goodbyes to their brother after he’d shot himself, my struggles with self harm, watching my sister’s battle depression, I wrote all of it with a fire only those truly alive have. It wasn’t fiery or venomous; instead it was days of locking doors and abrupt panic attacks. Every time I tried to write it head on, I managed to find myself in the bathtub trying to shut every little thought off.

It was after having a friend of mine review some of them that I really put into perspective what I wanted. For months I’d lived in the shadow of the assault, so scared of this new title I’d now have to adorn. I remember him messaging me, telling me that just because I’d finally opened up this wound doesn’t mean the world was entitled to it, especially if it triggered me to the point of sickness. I knew he was right. With his suggestion I focused on looser and free floating topics. The expression of my mental health as a young adult, pressure to go on and marry, failed relationships, and agency.

After I’d written and submitted 21 poems, BookLeaf compiled all of them digitally, then asked me what I wanted the cover art to look like and the title. The amount of pacing I did that entire day, I’m surprised I didn’t burn down the house from the friction. Much like the text message, the title suddenly popped into my head: my birthday. April was my birthday month and coincidentally the same month I started therapy that eventually led to me writing the poetry book. 19 was also the age I turned that year, marking yet another chapter in my young adult life; it was perfect. 19 in April became a symbol of my metamorphosis from blind youth to somewhat of an emotionally stable adult. What happened didn’t have to define me, no one thing had to define me in fact; I was free in that moment.

I like to think that I’ve grown out of my edginess, that I’ve learned how to deal with some of the worst tragedies an individual can in their lifetime. Reading 19 in April even today I can still trace my fingers against each poem and find some semblance of understanding. Every word, every phrase no matter how amateur and flimsy was a testament to a girl finding herself in the wreckage of her life once again. I felt pain, betrayal, a loss of identity and still chose to express it through writing and eventually turn it into peace. I never made money from it- I didn’t expect to in the first place- finally having everything out in the open and bare for the world to see was the best feeling I’ve ever had. If writing has taught me anything, it’s that life is a constant bittersweet symphony of events. When I imagine a stormy carpet, I no longer shed a tear.

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