Journey to become an author

This was a dream of a little girl, or perhaps still. A young one who wishes to escape from the tainted world and create her own with ink and a piece of paper. This little girl was me.

This might be not the story that you are looking for. This is a confession of a not-so-young writer sharing a story of what happened to her life.

It was a long journey until I reached this point, to become a writer and later an author. I was hiding behind my shell and wearing a mask, pretending to be someone else's dream, not knowing that I was dying.

There was a time also when I got corrupted by jealousy. An envious woman who couldn't even stand in the bookstore while it was my paradise. My only hiding place and the door to escape from reality. But I couldn't help at all. Every time I saw a new book, a new bestseller, or a new emerging author, my heart was broken. It was so painful and a sudden self-judgment became too harsh.

Why it can't be my name on that book? Why it cannot be the book that I wrote? Right! I have given up a long time ago.

That was my thought. But was I the one who had given up or was forced to forget what I was?

It didn't take a couple of days to get the answer; it took years! Years of self-condemned, followed by anxiety and depression. I was losing myself and I couldn't look at my face anymore in the mirror. It was a soulless human body with no hope.

To think of getting help as a solution will help me get rid of the problem. Well, not so true, but it's true. I mean, the problem is not me but I slowly become the problem because I lose my self-respect. I listen more to people who don't know me neither wanting to get to know me instead of myself. I didn't voluntarily follow their dream, but I was a person who believed that their dream could be my happiness. I was stupid.

So yeah, I got help from an amazing person and also helped myself because I'm the person who knows myself best. It took me a year for her to encourage me to write again, open the old diary, and continue to fill in the blank pages. And it also took me a year to re-open it and continue to write.

I put all my emotions, memories, and pains into poetry or fiction. I never intended to tell what exactly happened in my life, but at least I could always tell the metaphor of that story. Whatever they try to interpret my story at the end, it's beyond my control. Even if I tell what exactly happened, I couldn't control what people might think of it.

Do I get instantly healed after that, you asked? No, I don't get instantly healed. I was in constant ups and downs moments that I believe none of you would like to hear. It was a scary moment even for me, but I put everything down.

And every time I saw my stories in my book or any platform, it felt like looking at a relic. It becomes a memory that I can touch and read. Not the happiest, but at least I don't have to keep it on my head anymore. Or at least, I don't have to be the only person who knows it. It was- a relief.

This kind of thinking or mentality is still new to me, and sometimes it frightens me. Not in a way that will break me into pieces again, but in a way that brings me to a question:

Am I allowed to be this free?

Can you imagine how broken is that person to think that happiness is some sort of freedom?

Well, I tried not to dwell on that kind of- spell and more like continuing to do what I could do best for myself.

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