Same Pen, Different Me
Not everyone who keeps a journal necessarily identifies as a writer. But the pages of my purple notebook, with the members of One Direction gracing its cover, were my foundation.
The summer before my senior year in college, something in me needed a release. I’d only kept a journal once before in my life — at 15, the recaps of band practice and the drama it entailed was a product of boredom, not necessity. But at 21, the hard rock in my stomach that formed whenever I had to go to class or participate in anything social grew heavier. I had to do something.
When my thoughts were too much and I didn’t want my inner demons to burden anyone else, I used my words. Each time I opened my own journal, the tension in my chest relieved itself little by little.
These entries were for my eyes only, but I still worried about the style and how it read. Did it flow? Did I sound too whiny?
Buried under covers that reeked of takeout and anxiety, I fell into a position that became routine for years to come.
I started my blog shortly before my first public anxiety attack. Several months after graduation, with no job or desire to leave my bed, I was still trying to convince myself I was fine. The counselor I’d finally willed myself into seeing kept saying that I was “almost there.” ‘There” being this imaginary place that seemed impossible to reach.
I eventually took a job in retail to avoid that fear of applying to anything that related to my degree. That first day on the new job, I stood off in the corner of a crowded mall. With tears pooling in my eyes and a lump in my throat, I wondered how I would make my exit. How would I tell my new supervisor that I couldn’t be there much longer?
There was significant space between my blog posts during that time, but I still wrote. Whether it was about my favorite candles or my rising awareness of police brutality, I wrote to distract myself from what I was going through. Not once did I mention that moment being the last straw for me. Or how devastated I was to not be able to work. Soon after, I was checking in with a physician for the next step: an SSRI.
My first published piece reflected a moment of clarity. I was drawn to the open theme, “self growth.” After months of taking this tiny pill, I felt myself heading towards this light at the end of a tunnel that had trapped me for so long. These words that crowded my brain didn’t have to stay with just me. Maybe I could share them with others.
It was the first time I realized writing could have more than a minimal impact on those that write. I felt this buzz when I was writing; a feeling of worth that was unfamiliar. So I kept going, paying close attention to the news and engaging on social media about the issues that plagued our society. I yearned to write not just about myself, but about anything that inspired me.
I don’t know when exactly it happened, but that steam eventually started to run out. The significant gaps in my journal and blog archive were stifling at first. I felt embarrassed to not be churning out content on the daily. There was a self-imposed pressure to stay relevant, which overshadowed why I started writing in the first place: to clear away the rubbish of my headspace and make peace with what I was feeling in the moment. Taking my words and crafting them into an essay or short story was once essential to my day to day wellbeing. Soon, that need to scribble down every thought was replaced by the new focus I had on myself.
Recovery looks different for everyone. I’d been improving daily with small mundane tasks I couldn’t do two years ago. However, I couldn’t see myself as better until I examined my writing. My revelation was shocking, but comforting. The execution of what I write is less frequent, sure, but the confidence I have every single time I start something new is overwhelming. To believe in myself is unusual, and something I welcome with fumbling arms. To identify as a writer instead of brushing it off as a hobby is one of the more difficult goals I have, but it’s one I refuse to give up on.
My writing looks and feels different now, but that’s because I am different now.
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