At times, I believed that a peculiar disorder was present within me. “Something must be wrong with me ...” I reasoned with myself. Why was reality never satisfying enough for me, yet it seemed to be the perfect deception to everyone else? The world tells you to dream big dreams, but then to accept the fate destined for you. Why?

Ever since I was a little girl, I have had a gifted imagination and an obsession with creating the most far-fetched imaginary realities. I even made it a habit to give those imaginary realities their own story line. Nothing too abnormal there; children are supposed to imagine liberally. Around five years of age, I picked up the hobby of writing little fictional stories about anything my mind could dream of. There was no particular reason why I did this — I would just write until my heart was content. It gave me internal peace, a calming sensation shadowing over me. Later, I began exploring all different facets of writing such as nonfiction, poetry, and letter writing. Soon, I was writing all the time, carrying my yellow notepad everywhere I went. When I was a child, it was difficult to understand what was developing inside myself, so I couldn’t understand why I felt the unconditional need to express myself through writing.

Generally, interests that develop at a young age are genetically linked, so parents are not surprised when their child is interested in things they too enjoyed as a child. And yet, no one in my family is a writer. My parents could not understand where I had gotten this from.

“I don’t see why you need to take that notebook everywhere with you,” my parents would say, rolling their eyes.

“I’m writing my story,” I mumbled quietly, sensing the uncomfortable looks of disapproval.

“But you’re always writing a story! I don’t remember writing as much as you do when I was younger,” my mom said. “You’re not going to have any social skills.”

“She’s just a dreamer,” my dad sighed, shaking his head slightly.

“They’re never going to understand me, are they?” I muttered sadly under my breath so they wouldn’t hear.

At first, it didn’t matter to me if my parents did not understand why I loved writing so much. I had something special to take pride in. By then, I grew to feel a deep, intimate connection with writing; I was determined to never stop. However, when I reached 13, my emotions spiraled, and my viewpoint was tainted by negativity. Each time I would try to share
this enchanting connection I had with someone else, they’d fail to understand me and simply push me away. I kept knocking, but everyone’s door was closing in front of me. By the time I was 14, I started to feel alone and hopelessly lost in the world surrounding me. I felt like I had a hidden secret within me and no one else could quite grasp it the way I could.

When I turned 15, I nearly fell apart. I became depressed and ashamed of my talents, though I had once taken pride in them. I began to shut people out, burying my deepest thoughts inside a dark vortex within me. I found it impossible
to communicate with my parents, so I started journaling instead. I resolved that if no one could understand me, then I was going to accept the matter and cope with my predicament alone. I kept my journal hidden in the haven of my room, a safe place where I could free my wings. When I would read books occasionally, I discovered my favorite quote from The Diary of Anne Frank, where Anne says, “Paper is more patient than man.” It was beautiful to discover someone else who understood what a gift writing is to humankind. When you write, no one is there to judge or form opinions about you, the paper simply listens to you speak.

As I began to progress with this new coping mechanism, I also learned how to use different types of music to improve my writing. A calming song with no lyrics could help me to focus on a task or to find inspiration to be naturally creative. A sad song put me in touch with my sensitive side, thus helping me to understand my deepest emotions. A more intense song could give me goosebumps or even inspire a new story. Only now do I understand why. Art inspires the artist. It was a beautiful thing to see someone who had grasped the deeper meaning of life and discovered the way their heart wanted them to express their uniqueness. I realized that many people are unable to understand concepts beneath the surface, but I am thankful that I could.

Perhaps it’s foolish to give credit to an inanimate 250-paged notebook covered in butterflies, but yet it still helped me discover who I am today. A tranquil song flowing through my headphones, I would find myself at peace in the secret haven I had built. My journal, locked to the key of my heart, became a special place for my dreams. Every day I had something new to add to my journal. And maybe one day I can free my wings to the world.