Writing for myself.

I have never written for myself.

When I kept a journal in 8th Grade it was for the inattentive eyes of my peers. They would recklessly flip the pages, skimming quickly through the lines to see if I had written anything about them. Whether what I had written about them was bad or whether it was good. I learned quickly not to write anything too personal, not to say the truth about what I felt about their actions and inactions. I learned to tune my words down to what they would understand. They liked that. They liked my style of writing. Most importantly, they liked me. So I left it that way. I wrote for them.

In the 10th Grade, the words I had learned to silence found another way to release themselves. They came out as tears. I cried a lot. I cried when I was happy and when I was sad. I cried when I was alone and when I was in the comfort of friends who were not very comforting. I cried for everything and for nothing. I could not write in that state of mind. I could not turn sobs into sentences. Then I met Jay. He was my senior and he told me he liked my soul. Our friendship skipped that ‘awkward’- shy around each other stage. We spat out secrets to each other like they would choke us if we didn’t .Then he was appointed a prefect. He had no time for me anymore. So he got me a book to write to him. I wrote to him and for him. I wrote what I felt would make him like me more. What would make him never get bored of me. He loved me and my writing. So did everyone who happened to read our book. They said I had such a beautiful mind. I did not know exactly what was beautiful about vague four line poems. I only knew I didn’t want Jay to leave me. I wrote for him.

In my 11th and 12th grade. I had acquired a vast array of friends. They liked me because I was thoughtful, careful and lustful. They filled me up with with compliments. I floated. A helium balloon. I wrote letters to them because they liked letters. They liked to feel that someone cared. Even when they popped the balloon me, I wrote to them. I explained the pain and happiness their words and actions caused me. I was shameless in my letters. It was the most I let out my words. But still, it wasn’t for me. I wrote to them. For them.

As I am now. My thoughts have become terrorists attacking me when I least expect it. They strangle and throttle me. Sometimes, I wish for them to kill me. For maybe then, I will have peace. As I am now, my words betray me and I cannot blame them. I have betrayed them so many times. I deserve it. But I have to do this. I must write what I feel and not what I should feel, what I care about not what I should care about. I will be reckless and unapologetic. I will be selfish. It is for me. I am writing for myself.

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