It is back to school season and I find it appropriate to introduce myself and start listing facts that make me sound appealing, only I am not awkwardly standing in front of a room full of peers and being judged on every word that comes out of my mouth. Instead, I will be judged for every word that I type. Well, instead of listing reasons why I should be socially approved by you all- I am going to tell you about the reason that has led me to writing.

Growing up I was not the smartest, nor the prettiest. As a little girl, I thought that the world was against me. I had no friends to turn to and I was too young to properly cope with my emotions. I would lash out to my family and have dark thoughts at an age where you should be thinking about parks, ballet, and who will be picked first for kickball. You know that feeling when you are picking petals off a flower repeating, "he loves me, he loves me not"? My constant emotion was equivalent to plucking the last petal and saying those four words, "he loves me not". Ultimately, I had no outlet to release the feeling that I did not quite understand at that point in my life.

I was the punch line of every joke and inspiration to every quip. I was so young, yet I was not content with how my life was. I have had a crazy life and will get into that another time. I would write every now and then around second grade but really started writing in fifth grade, one of the darkest times in my life. Although I was in fifth grade reading at a first-grade level, I would excel in my daily journals in literature and shine bright presenting poems or writing activities in class. I noticed when I was in fifth grade that I was confident in my writing, for once I was confident in something.

On a normal weekend afternoon, I received a letter from my biological father--it brought warmth to my cold heart. It was as if I received a letter from Superman himself, only it ended in tears and a broken heart. I had told him on a previous phone call that I wanted to live with him, and without hesitation, he said I could. Well, my biological father was a coward and took the less complicated way to tell me that I could not live with him, delicately telling me that he does not want me by sending a letter in the mail. My heart shattered into not a million, but a billion pieces. The following week, I could not let the thought of nobody wanting me out of my head, I felt as if no one loved me or wanted me.

Without thinking about the consequences, I took a pair of scissors and began to inflict the same pain I felt emotionally onto my skin. After, I proceeded into my dark and twisted state of mind and began to write a note in my journal that I kept. I do not recall when but my mother found the note and asked to talk in my room: I was terrified and started blabbering away with an excuse that was obviously full of crap. I was obsessed with this show called "Degrassi", I had told my mother that I was pretty much role playing Ellie (who often cuts) and either she bought it and was oblivious or she did not want to deal with what was yet to come.

The thing is, after I wrote that note that was full of pain and suffering, I began to feel relieved. I thought to myself, "What if I write what I feel, what I want, and what I need?" In fifth grade, I officially turned to writing to help cope with what I now know is depression. I would be lying if I said I no longer turned to physical pain to feel relief, but what I can say is I did it a lot less. Creating poems, songs, stories, and snippets made me feel good about my life. I owe my life to writing, so getting this opportunity to create personal articles and sharing opinions, experiences, and what not is like being rewarded for all those times that I would spend pouring my heart and soul onto pages and pages. I write to maintain a stable mind and I write to gain happiness.