Some people play computer games. Others go for retail therapy. I write. I didn’t know I dealt with all problems the same way — besides caressing the wall with my iron fists — but it eventually dawned on me when I turned 18.

Writing is my coping mechanism.

Oh, don’t get me wrong. I don’t think I write well, and like a true wielder of the ink sword, I’d like to think I have many steps to climb before I can call myself anything but good.

But I write.

It all started when I was six. I hated Mathematics, but my father seemed to think there’s something lovely in problem sums and digits. I would scribble on the back of every Math worksheet, anywhere that is blank, pen songs and poems dedicated to the characters living in my head. I would waste jotter book after jotter book with words. Computers weren’t meant for games; they were meant for writing the most incredible stories a child could think of.

Then it grew into something more as I spiralled into depression and anxiety, as the world around me grew increasingly dysfunctional and well, uncaring.

I don’t write because I want to. I do it because I have to. It is my way of seeking clarity and extinguishing the fire ambiguity brings.

Now, I write for a living. I am what they call a journalist. When I got the job, my brother asked me, “Wow, this was your dream right?”

And I didn’t know what to say because all along, it was ‘be a diver in the navy’ or ‘be a teacher’ or ‘be a lawyer’ in jotter books. I never considered ‘being a writer’.

Because maybe, I’m already one.

And that in itself is the biggest reason why I’m still around.