Why I Write, And Why You Should Too.
How Writing Gave Me A Purpose And Saved My Life.
I used to write. Everyday. I was a blogger. That was my identity.
My writing was good. It was writing that made you “see” scenes unfold in front of you. Writing that made you feel what I had to say, not just read it.
I used to write because I couldn’t help it — I had to do it, otherwise, the words would make me explode. I would wake up every day at the break of dawn, make myself a cup of green tea, and start writing. I didn’t need a schedule. The words would pour out of me, with no effort.
“There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.”
Maya Angelou
The feeling was intoxicating. I was in a high every time I had a new comment. I’d relish in my glory every time my name occurred in a discussion. I loved my followers. I knew most of them, we were on a first-name basis. I was their go-to resource for most everyday questions. I was their expert.
Until I dried out.
I didn’t see it coming. Or rather, I didn’t want to see it.
My children were my priority. Or so I thought. With two young children, the hours in a day can very easily seem too few. But I didn’t mind. I was willing to give up on my, already, little sleep. I would write, and plan, and write code, and learn about color schemes pleasing to the eye of the reader, and then write some more. I was all over the place, just like a typical ADHD adult would be.
I’d use every available minute of my day for my writing. I’d spend hours on the phone with my best friend, discussing what else we should be writing about. The hours spent became days, months, and soon the months became years. First anniversary, second, third… And the years went by.
What was happening, was that writing was my psychotherapy.
What was actually happening, was that I was in denial.
I missed contributing. I missed teaching. I missed working. I mean, of course I loved having all of my time to spend with my children. But soon after they both went to school, I missed working outside of the home. I missed waking up, getting dressed, going to the office and doing something that helped other people too.
So, I created some sort of working environment at home. Only I didn’t know it. And I didn’t treat it accordingly. I made few investments (mostly because my family was on one income), I didn’t monetize properly (because I didn’t know how, really), and although I started building relations with companies, I didn’t bother to nurture them.
I could say I used to write for a living, but the sad truth is that I made very little money from it.
Then, there came a point when I needed to change my life.
I had to move at the time. This didn’t only mean packing and unpacking a whole household, it also meant my children would have to change schools. And this was not an easy transition.
After spending almost six months searching for a place to call home, everything had to be arranged to be done in one weekend. It all entailed a lot of planning and synchronizing. And that was the easy part. The aftermath was another thing.
I became depressed and I didn’t know how to get better. My writing didn’t make me happy anymore. So, I gradually stopped.
Six months went by, and every now and then I would tell myself that I should write something, anything, just to keep things going. Another six months went by, and still… nothing happened. I’d wake up full of ideas, but nothing was good enough to make me turn on my laptop and sit down, in front of it.
There were times when my inbox would get up to a thousand unopened emails, and I couldn’t be bothered. I’d check the absolutely urgent ones, and leave the rest.
The first year became second. And as time went by, it became quite clear that my interest was gone. What kind of a life was this? I was doing only the absolutely necessary.
Looking back, this was a good thing.
All my focus was redirected to other aspects of my life, that I later realized needed urgent attention.
No one was happy about the move. Our lives had been turned upside down, and we had no say in it. No wonder we were all pissed off. We were, however, lucky enough to transfer to a school with a psychologist, so this was a big help for both the children and me. The progress was slow, but it was happening.
And after the first year, when it really set in that we would be in this place for quite some time, I started settling in. My creativity started peaking again. And after I tried a few different things, I realized that words, my true and forever love, were back.
I started dreaming about posts I could write. A book started taking form in my mind. It was all still on the drawing board but nevertheless, anything was better than being barren. After such a long period of drought, I really surprised myself.
I remembered why I write. I remembered what it felt like to finish a post and see it printed. To me, it’s always like the first breath you take, when you come up after a dive. Isn’t it liberating? Isn’t it envigorating? Isn’t it what everyone should feel like when they do something they love?
Only, this time, I thought I’d try something different, I’d go down another path. Writing, yes. No social media though. No overexposure. And so, here I am.
A woman. A mother. A writer.
Stressed, anxious, thrilled, happy, opinionated, confident, strong, devoted, curious, shy, loving, uncertain, hesitant, scared, far from perfect.
Alive.
Nice to meet you all.
Maria
