When I was younger I never felt the need for poetry. I always saw it as a nascence. I was younger juvenile, analytical thinking was an alienated concept to my uncultured mind. I would spend my days thinking of going to Harvard to become a lawyer. (Ironic how I wanted to work for a justice system as corrupt as ours.) I spent summers outside swimming, and winter nights by the fire. Yet I still didn’t have that push.

By age twelve I wanted to go with the flow, blend in because that’s all that mattered. Pathetic isn’t it. I never really had a passion, a drive. I signed up for our play that year, “Sherlock Holms and the curse of the sign of the four”. Produced by Mrs. Virgina Mafia-Tobler. Or as we called her “maltav” or “the cocktail”. God I think I went through hazing when I pledged that stupid frat that was better than working with her. I liked it, it came to me. So I decided to sign onto it for the next year, and the year after that. I began to believe that my calling was the theatre. I enjoyed my fellow thespians. One actor in particular Dave Masterson. We all looked up to Dave, he was talented, smart. He was going somewhere. We all loved Dave. That is everyone except our fuhrer of a director. She despised him. He was everything that she could have ever wanted to be. (if she actually had talent…) So when Dave left, we rightfully turned to a new lead, someone who was more talented than the rest. Thomas Macintyre. I liked Tom as well, he was down to earth and intelligent. I told myself this is where I belong. But I still had much to learn. In my sophomore year, I was introduced to the darker side of theatre. Full of divas and arrogant fools who muster themselves up on false pride. My sophomore year brought the addition of the Okeef sisters. (I feel like they may have been the basis for Regina George). To call them shallow would be an understatement. They were cheap. And they brought with them the most retched pile of freshman filth I ever did lay on eyes on. Jack Carl. The words that one would use to describe Mr. Carl would most likely fall under the lines of Childish, Crude, Homophobic, and Bigoted. And I had to put up with them. God I always hated them. They used me as their punching bag. After that year I switched schools, and switched roles. I became prideful, and self-righteous. I saw myself as above others. I had sold out my values. I had become the Jack Carl.

My junior year sparked a new beginning, new friends, new drama club, and a much needed change of director who was far better than the spiteful wench I had to work with before. When I first transferred to Saratoga Catholic I felt happier. I was able to believe in myself, and feel my self-worth begin to slowly rebuild. (That is until I meet the soul sucking black hole that was Divivo. But that’s another story). I meet new companions, and my two best friends to this day. However, my pride was heavily present. It acted as a shield, a way for me to hide myself. This essence of pride was fueled here. I believe myself above others, yet I was careful never to show it. It served as a defense mechanism to keep me protected from the reality of myself, and the world around me. It was also here that I entered the literary madhouse that was “Crowtherland”. Crowther as we would refer to her, was my English teacher for junior and senior year. (and possibly the first ever fangirl). Crowther’s class intrigued me. Yes the class lacked order, but still there was a desire to further my knowledge. I began to write, and take a look back from myself. I started to notice that the pieces I wrote for the class were well received, and I did have a gift for the written word. But even under the guiding words of my teacher. My mind lay on a larger prize. I wanted fame, I wanted notoriety, I wanted the praise and recognition that I had been neglected my entire life. I wanted to be an actor. So when it came time to apply to colleges, I had my heart set on my first choice Castleton University, even though my second choice Heartwick College offered twice as much money. Boy was that a mistake. A mistake that I wouldn’t meet until July 18^th 2014. A mistake with the prettiest shade of green eyes…

It wasn’t till I arrived at university that I was fully exposed to the true nature of people. The kind that use you, and toss you out when they grow bored of you. The kind that promise to stay but when times grow hard, they walk away like it’s nothing. The kind that open you up to your most vulnerable state, then pounce on you. The kind that use you, play with your emotions and mentally drain you so that three years later you’re sitting in front of a laptop at one in the morning lamenting over a fucking bitch. A bitch named Racheal. Seeing her walk out the door that night like it didn’t matter to her killed me. (But what more can you expect from a cheerleader…) I had these emotions swirling inside of me. This bleak despair consuming me. So I wrote. I picked up my pencil and notebook at three am and I wrote. And it felt exhilarating. I felt like I could finally process all these feelings onto a outer surface and proclaim them to the world. So writing became a safety net. A way for me to break away from the world around me, to a place where I could expose myself. Stand there naked and unprotected. Yet I didn’t have to fear. Nothing could possibly hurt me. I loved it. I began to write in class. While the professors would go on and on with their droll lectures, I was writing away. I would bring them to a companion of mine in the theatre department. A confidant. And he would provide constructive criticism. He was also the first take note when I expanded my written word to my cigarettes often writing little ideas phrases such as useless, and misunderstood on them. (Thank you tumblr for the incentive.)

As the year stretched on I began to grow further unrestful. Having to see Racheal’s face in class every day began to take a toll on me. I became paranoid, and constructed a delusional belief that my peers had sympathized with her and had come to despise me. I began to isolate myself from them. A mistake that I should have never made. As to this day my relationships with them are forever strained and I am an outsider because of my own doing. So I took these feelings of isolation and paranoia and kept writing. For majority of my freshman and sophomore year this was how I kept myself grounded. By pouring all emotion that I had into my poetry. Hiding inside of my room with my poems to keep me company. To paraphrase Paul Simon and Arthur Garfunkel “I had my pages, of poetry to protect me”.

It was also during this time that I made a key discovery. No matter how hard I tried and pushed myself, I was a shitty actor. The reality was something that I had refused to face for the past two years. Unfortunately when I did it was too late, and I am now stuck as an Acting and Directing major, with only a minor in Sociology, and Women’s and Gender Studies. But I was forced to come to terms with myself. It was then that I finally realized the true spark behind my writing, and with the advice of an extremely supportive writer, I joined Odyssey. My writing is my love. It helps me break free from the stresses of day to day life. Some people tend to use meditation to relax themselves. I however choose to write. Primarily because it allows me to take my inner most thoughts and mold them into something that is truly beautiful. (That and as hard as I try, I just can’t seem to get the hang of meditation). I had finally found my gift to the world. This summer a friend of mine approached me about my writing and asked what I wanted to do with it. To which I responded I want to fulfill myself through my works. Come to terms with myself and the world around me.

Writing opens up another world for me, it allows for me to come to terms with myself,

something that I have been unable to do for a long time. I have finally found a

successful and positive way to express my emotions, and turn these jumbled

feelings into something truly beautiful. This is my calling and I am proud to

be surrounded by fellow writers who understand and accept me for who I am