Why I signed up for Medium
I decided that before I post articles, research, advice, etc, that I should tell you about myself and why exactly I signed up for Medium.
Lets get started then.
Since I was a child my room has been been a haven for my 10–15 weathered black college-ruled composition notebooks, with at least one in my equally weathered black bag at all times.
I remember at age 10 regularly reading my poetry at our monthly assemblies at my school (it was a small school).
At age 11 I remember running away from home for my first time and leaving a carefully constructed guilt poem before I tied my shoes.
Forward to middle school, still writing in the notebooks, but with considerably more angst. Puberty. Short stories and poetry started to weigh towards solely poetry.
High school. This is where the constructive writing restricted itself to poetry that still leaves a bitter taste. Depression was always a leech in the back of my mind, but the later teen years insidiously manifested this genetic sickness. I channeled it to my silent writing and not so silent arguments with my parents.
I was depressed. I felt emotion strongly; I did not know how to contain them. I started on medication. For my three medicated years I wrote with little emotion; a mechanical hand and cursive cliches.
College was where the writing ended. Writing paper after paper sucked the enjoyment out of it.
Somewhere between 18 and 20 I slowly pulled myself out of the comfort of my depression and realized it was okay to take a chance at happiness. I remember thinking it reminded me of diving in cold water, then once adjusted finding the frigid air uncomfortable, unsafe. I just needed to dry off.
I adopted a dog- a lovely two year old (now five year old) Pit Bull. I found friends that accepted habits I hid in high school. I spent most of my time staring a screen with a controller in my hand, or staring at a make-shift beer pong table and where I will always cherish the nights spent smoking cigarettes and drinking in a parking lot, I was living in a fog. It was forged happiness. I had to write it myself.
Speaking of, the only time I was able to write during this time was intoxicated (Hemingway and Kerouac were my favorite authors at the time for a reason). I wrote some good, some bad.
January-June 2014- I left GVSU behind, broke up with my boyfriend of that scene and moved to London for a semester. I took up a writing class and started writing again. I started laughing sober, I started going for walks, I stopped taking sleeping pills. I made friends. I hopped fences. I danced in the street. I relayed my happiness with a pen at night.
June 2014- I am back in America. I dye my hair blue for the summer because why not? I pick up a job at a coffee shop that allows me to read and write at the job. Not only that, but it was a magnet for other writers. I met people that still influence me today, even across an ocean as I type this from my flat in London.
July 2014- I met a journalist that loves what I perceive to be my flaws and shares my love for writing. I started eating breakfast, I stopped having nightmares. I had someone to share my writing with.
I accepted a position at my school newspaper in October and stayed until I graduated in May. I attended lectures, conferences, events.
May 2015- back to London for a summer internship at a magazine. Still writing, still learning. I started a professional Twitter. I became obsessed with Truthdig as a source of inspiration (thank you Joel). I watch Button Poetry videos frequently.
I have finally decided I should post my thoughts and articles to a website, not just for a resume, or freelance, but for myself. I deserve to let my notebook writings breathe.
If you’ve gotten this far, thanks for reading. I will be posting again soon.