I am my words: This is what I am

I'm the intrinsic one. The spiritual weirdo that asks you what your sign is on the first date. The intuitive Einstein that enjoys sipping coffee at a dusty old library while writing down my visions and goals. I prefer sleepovers with my journal, rather than with my friends. And I write some fantastic, sentimental birthday cards. 

When I was asked at age seven what I wanted to be when I grew up I said, without a doubt in my way, a teacher. When asked at age eighteen I said, remembered by a life worth writing down.

I write because I've always wrote. It's what I do and how I cope. It's what has naturally budded in to being my human passion. It occurs naturally and organically. It has created a candlelight that glows with security through the depths of my darkness. So when I sat in my undergrad Composition II class and looked at my term paper, my identity disappeared as fast as the last flicker of a flame. The top read, 'Opinions of U.S. Global Superpower Status.' And what followed was an array of drenched words, covered in blood red etches; scrapes and scratches taking a free-fall in failure. Not to mention, the big, fat, 'D' was circled twice in a lopsided circumference. 

The most difficult words to spit out are usually the ones found revving their engines in the garage of our throats. Hot and ready to blow. And as I locked eyes with my professor across the room, it was obvious to see he knew exactly what I thought that 'D' really stood for. 

The impulsive sensations of anger echoed so loud through my body. Instead, I sat comfortably numb with sizzled heat oozing out from my pores. I sat at my desk and began to hate myself for thinking I was ever good at something. I despised myself for assuming I had found my passion and I consumed myself with resentment for declaring it to others.

I failed and I felt every bit of it as I tossed the beaten up, slap-in-the-face piece of paper straight in the trash on my way out the door. 

Years later, I picked up a pen and wrote what would be my best work to date. The top read, 'I am this: This is what I am.' The text said, 'My words.' 

I am my words. This is what I am.

The mantra hit me and sucked up any ounce of defeat that was left looming in my gut. The ones who said I lacked creative substance, the ones who told me I'd never make my words mean anything, the ones who stole my journals and laughed at the entries, the ones who doubted and shut them up in a locked box for years, disappeared. 

Because those people are not my thoughts. Their thoughts are not my choices. Not my burdens to bare, my secrets to hold, my opinions to have, my decisions to make, or my memories to treasure. 

My thoughts are my reason for a powerful voice that is mine and mine only. 

I am driven to write. I write when I'm furious, I write when I'm ecstatic and I write when I'm suffering. But what really drives me to write, is the fact that one day I know when I pick my penmanship back up, I revisit that same moment and remember exactly what it felt like to be that girl in the story again. To be able to own what you write is to remind yourself just how wonderful you are, what you survived and what you conquered. To own your words is worth more than a letter grade can ever dictate. It doesn't have to be grammatically correct, witty or engaging - because it's too busy being raw and vibrating with energy. Your pages don't care, much like people don't. The major critic is the one who looks back on the days when you find out who you really were when 'they' weren't looking. 

The only advice your words will give back to you are to not waste valuable ink telling a story that you think you should. It won't change anything and it sure won't give you a better peace of mind. 

I've learned to never hesitate to vent, reflect and congratulate myself for the outlook I had in any particular moment. My writing is proof that I mean something to myself. It's proof that I can create anything that I want. 

And at the end of the day it is a powerful realization beyond belief. To discover that the only thing that can blow your candle-light out, is the very one who created the same flame in the first place.