Creative writing truly saved my life.

Every child is afraid of the monster lurking in the shadows or lying in wait under the bed; for me, that monster had always been my mother. She was extraordinarily abusive, and I have to sift through what little memories of my own life (many may be repressed or I may have head trauma, I don’t know for certain), to remember a time I was not acutely aware of her presence, holding my breath when she and I were in the same proximity. I felt I had no control of my own life or over my body. I had engaged in self-injurious behaviors to grasp at some semblance of control, but the only time I truly felt human was when I was writing. I was secretive about my confessions and philosophical tangents, never letting anyone see into my soul. Instead of disassociating from myself, as I often did and still do, creative writing helped me feel so viscerally connected to my true self as well as the world around me. When my high school English and creative writing teacher informed me I could construct aesthetically pleasing sentences, I was astonished. No one had believed in me before. I hope to someday be someone’s pillar of support; I want to inspire. I hope one day the words I have written will reach out from the page and comfort a confused, neglected and abused child, and let them know they too can confront their own monster.