Macbeth M'love.
Voice
I was born to write. I was born to bleed on the paper with a emotional truth of every moment of my life, every feeling I’ve ever felt and everything I’ve ever known; or that’s how I feel. As a child I was obsessed with the written word, my mother would read books far beyond my level to my brother and I’d devour them, always asking the meaning of words, always learning and soaking up all the rich information each book had to offer. Then, I started to play pretend, scribbling over any blank piece of paper I could get my hands on and presenting each one to my parents as my latest literary masterpiece. That love of writing has never left me.
I write because it fills some void in myself that has always been there, when I was young I didn’t have friends, so I wrote about lonely children who somehow were transported to magical worlds where all they found were new friends, perfect friends. The years passed, and I changed, I was now the romantic twelve year old girl; always losing myself in a new crush, and new puppy love, which as most childish relationships do ended in what I thought then was extreme emotional turmoil. I wrote about heartache, and of love – something that, at that age, I barely even understood. At thirteen my mother chose to let her anger outweigh the love of her children and threw us out. So, I wrote about broken families, orphans, and children whose parents neglected or abused them. A year later I was living with my father, a man of many addictions. He loved my brother and I, but he loved the bottle and the crack pipe, too. I wrote about children who had to grow far beyond their years to take care of someone who was supposed to be taking care of them, I wrote of neglect and of pain; but that was the year I also realized what loving someone truly meant. It was the year that I made, and truly realized some of the friends that still stand by my side today; so I also wrote of love and of friends and of support. Then, my father died, and I no longer wrote. I no longer wrote because I didn’t know how to put on paper the emptiness I felt, I didn’t know how to write someone who was so lost and so broken that they could barely breath; because it didn’t feel like an emotion that could be captured in words; it still doesn’t.
I tried so many times to pull myself out, and to let something other than my sadness take over, that was the year without words, I didn’t write, I didn’t let myself get lost in reading and taking inspiration from the words of someone else who knows the passion and love that writing can make one feel. Writing is what brought me back; I was forced to put my thoughts on paper by people who I thought were trying to kill me at some points, I was forced to write poems on why I had tried to cut my wrists that summer, one why I had been put into an inpatient facility for people who were at least somewhat mentally disturbed; so I wrote. I poured the sadness, emptiness, hurt, and hatred out on paper until I had no more left within myself. I poured myself and my soul into every word; one thing that helped me become a better writer.
In the years before, when things weren’t going well, I tried to turn the characters in my stories lives around, always give the happy ending that my childish mind had always hoped for; but now I put down the truth. I put down how reality can slap you in the face, how sometimes people fall down and it might take them forever to get back up. I do write happiness, as well, I write life and I write death; I write everything I’ve ever experienced and every person who’s every wandered into my life and made themselves interesting. I went back and wrote those lonely little girls, but they never found fairytale friends who were perfect in every way; some that were there for them and some that walked away.
I write because it fills some void in myself that has always been there, when I was young I didn’t have friends, so I wrote about lonely children who somehow were transported to magical worlds where all they found were new friends, perfect friends. The years passed, and I changed, I was now the romantic twelve year old girl; always losing myself in a new crush, and new puppy love, which as most childish relationships do ended in what I thought then was extreme emotional turmoil. I wrote about heartache, and of love – something that, at that age, I barely even understood. At thirteen my mother chose to let her anger outweigh the love of her children and threw us out. So, I wrote about broken families, orphans, and children whose parents neglected or abused them. A year later I was living with my father, a man of many addictions. He loved my brother and I, but he loved the bottle and the crack pipe, too. I wrote about children who had to grow far beyond their years to take care of someone who was supposed to be taking care of them, I wrote of neglect and of pain; but that was the year I also realized what loving someone truly meant. It was the year that I made, and truly realized some of the friends that still stand by my side today; so I also wrote of love and of friends and of support. Then, my father died, and I no longer wrote. I no longer wrote because I didn’t know how to put on paper the emptiness I felt, I didn’t know how to write someone who was so lost and so broken that they could barely breath; because it didn’t feel like an emotion that could be captured in words; it still doesn’t.
I tried so many times to pull myself out, and to let something other than my sadness take over, that was the year without words, I didn’t write, I didn’t let myself get lost in reading and taking inspiration from the words of someone else who knows the passion and love that writing can make one feel. Writing is what brought me back; I was forced to put my thoughts on paper by people who I thought were trying to kill me at some points, I was forced to write poems on why I had tried to cut my wrists that summer, one why I had been put into an inpatient facility for people who were at least somewhat mentally disturbed; so I wrote. I poured the sadness, emptiness, hurt, and hatred out on paper until I had no more left within myself. I poured myself and my soul into every word; one thing that helped me become a better writer.
In the years before, when things weren’t going well, I tried to turn the characters in my stories lives around, always give the happy ending that my childish mind had always hoped for; but now I put down the truth. I put down how reality can slap you in the face, how sometimes people fall down and it might take them forever to get back up. I do write happiness, as well, I write life and I write death; I write everything I’ve ever experienced and every person who’s every wandered into my life and made themselves interesting. I went back and wrote those lonely little girls, but they never found fairytale friends who were perfect in every way; some that were there for them and some that walked away.