my writing

I have always wanted to be a writer. Before I knew how to type I would pour out green jumbled letters across the black screen of our tiny Apple. I wanted to write something profound that would change the world. I wanted to get all the thoughts I had in my head onto paper (or that blank scree) and hope they left me forever.

I had so many emotions as a child that I could not understand. This is not what I want to write about now, although it may filter in at one point or another. I wanted so much to have my words heard - as I struggled to be heard in my own home. The phrase, "Children are seen, not heard" was one of great relevance in our home. I always struggles - fought - demanded to be heard.

I often was a close friend to misconduct when I realized nothing in my life could be controlled by the likes of me. I continued to write. I kept all my thoughts inside and wrote all that I could. I was very passionate, very expressive, very emotional. These played well into my writing, but sometimes I could not handle all the feelings. I could not handle the obligation to write all that I was or let the insane turmoil around me lay to rest.

That year, I began to seek out ways that I could continue in my intensity-driven passion and still function as a human being. I searched for something in my immediate surroundings that I could control, since there was so much around me I had no power over.

I took to bulimia.

That is enough said about that for now, as this post is not called "my disease" or "my horrible self-hate" or "my confusion," it is called "my writing" so that is what I will speak to.

From that little green screen in my room as a small child, I moved to paper. I did not have a computer until many years later so I took to the old pen-and-paper route. I began with journal entries and moved into poetry. I loved Shakespeare (as did my mother), so I took to trying to write in Elizabethan English. All those poems sounded much more eloquent when spoked in the accent I tried so desperately to replicate.

Something moved me about writing my thoughts and feelings in any sense I needed to. Something was created inside me that I saw no where else in the world around me. I felt comfort and I felt heard.

For years I wrote mostly poems. Some of these have never seen the light of day, some of these are lost somewhere in multiple moves, divorces, and pain, more are with me still.

I began writing a book - filled with these journals and poems that are still left - when I was about 15. I wrote and rewrote for more than 10 years, then have not touched it since. No one has ever read it in its entirety and I am not sure if anyone ever will. It is very intense and may be painful for some of the people in the pages.

It began as an autobiographical tale, but due to the fact I just mentioned I started to alter it into a fictional novel. I am really not sure what it is at this point.

My book takes the path of my life through and documents my perspective from different time periods. It starts with some childhood, but since I cannot remember anything from that time it is hard to write about it. Also, I am not sure if I had too much of what is traditionally called "childhood" since I saw and experienced so many non-childhood things.

The only memories of have of most of my life are my written words, so that is another reason why I hold them so dear.

The book continues into my eating disorder (and truly, that is the point of this book).

So for today, I bid you farewell and leave you with one tid-bit of my poetry.

from a "child"
i look in the mirror and all i see
is a frightened child staring back at me
she needs my hand but it cannot be had
for the fear in her heart is that which makes her sad
people look at her and see her life
full of simple things and little strife
she sees her life as one big weight on all around
and all this child wants is desperately to be found
-Michelle Wright (1997)