Why I Write

Proud is not an adjective I would generally use in self-descriptions. In fact, I often think that if I stopped speaking for an entire day, it would be easy for me to melt into a transparent abyss of isolation. I’m convinced people overlook me.  That is, however, the first time I’ve verbalized that.

Writing helps me do that. It stimulates realization.

These feelings of insecurity don’t come from a lack of involvement or an outrageous desire to be victimized. It’s just that I have always felt different. I have an old soul. I’m too old for my age. I’m too young to be almost 20. I’m too overwhelmed for my familial responsibilities. I’m too complacent to be heard. Most of all, I’m too complicated to be understood.

Writing forces me to confront my complex feelings.

I’m a very dismissive person. I am the queen of evasion. I tend to say, “I don’t know” just to avoid explaining why I’m feeling a certain way. If my parents call me, I’ll let it go to voicemail. I like to keep thoughts to myself. I believe I have too many thoughts. I enjoy listening to elaborate stories but feel people will disregard a lengthy tale of mine. I love being alone but I hate being ignored. I prefer to be uncomfortable for fear of even slightly inconveniencing anyone else. I have an unrealistic belief that I am the only person willing to compromise. I can be a bit of a pushover.

I have a lot of feelings.

Words are fun, and I like to overuse them a bit. I think of multiple ways to describe something and putting that on paper is the only way I can get all of those thoughts out. Writing helps me sort out my feelings. Once I lay all my thoughts out on a paper, they tend to look like a bunch of scattered sentences and jumbled grammar errors. Then slowly, with patience, I always solve the puzzle of my mind.

Writing is my escape.

I come from a large family of six. Their huge personalities often overshadow my own. I’m not the type of person to walk into a room and demand attention. I’d rather lay back and observe the chaos around me. In fact, I tend to narrate my life in my head as situations unravel before me. I love analysis. I love the idea that I can lay everything out on a piece of paper and hand it to someone else without having to actually talk about it.  It is my preferred choice of expression. In fact, I often hand my friends letters recollecting events or explaining past feelings with the disclaimer that if they want to read it, they are not allowed to ask me any questions about it afterward. I hate talking.

Writing is the one thing no one can ever take away from me.

One’s voice seeps through the written word. I have a strong voice. This strength cannot go to waste. I can’t only perceive writing as an escape. After traveling to the Middle East, I realized that I have to use writing to make a statement. Writing is power. Writing is influential. I have the privilege to write and be heard. It is a responsibility. I am obliged to describe the injustices I saw firsthand to the blogosphere, and make people realize how blessed we are. I hope to unravel some of the feelings of culture shock I experienced abroad, as well as to come to terms with personal issues I’ve successfully avoided. I know that no matter how isolated I may feel, there are other young women who may identify with me. There are other people who will find meaning in my jumble.

Writing forges bonds.

This is why I have a special relationship with my keyboard. This is why my notebooks are covered in ink from my favorite purple pen. I enjoy writing. I look at finished papers with confidence. I pour my heart and soul into them without the fear of judgment. The blank page is the only place that I am truly myself. I am happy to be myself.

Writing gave me self-worth. It helped me realize that I don’t want to be normal. I am different.

I am proud when I write.

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