I used to write.
And I was actually pretty good, believe it or not.
Reading through my old writings from my class in high school, I remember that it was a very, very dark period of my life.
It was my senior year. My second year attending that high school.
My mother moved us from south Orange County, California to the armpit of America (or so I thought) - Oklahoma. I hated her so much, even after a year of living there.
Before I ramble on and on about now pointless details, just know that I felt so very alone.
Absolutely alone, after a decade of searching and FINALLY finding where I truly fit in. I had a beautiful group of supportive and loving friends, without the craziness of high school drama. That was so important to me. Every teenager seeks acceptance. I had found it, and was almost immediately ripped away from it.
I absolutely hated Oklahoma and I hated my high school, as well. But my creative writing class pushed me. It kept me going to school each day. I literally woke up every single morning dreading the day ahead, but the desire to be in that class gave me a purpose for that day.
I know that it sounds so silly and trivial, but that class gave me the ability to express myself, and a place where I would not be judged for my thoughts and feelings. A place where I was encouraged, where I was told that I was actually good at something. A safe place. It was FREEDOM. The ability to be myself. The ability to breathe in a world where I felt suffocated.
God was looking out for me. I know that for a fact.
And it was through creative expression and acceptance in my immediate world.
I might not have survived without it.
I have started keeping a creative writing journal by my bed. There are only a few entries, but I know that it will grow over time.
And it will be a beautiful, candid view of my heart.