Do you swear to tell the truth and nothing but the truth?

I promise you, I am not who you think I am. I am not that girl you see. I'm not a box, there's more than four sides to me. I am not THAT happy nor am I THAT sad. Well, I'm not anymore. I can assure you, I am not trying to make you believe me. I am just trying to make you understand, make you see the real me. My words have meaning yes but on paper, they're pure. I promise to tell you everything, I promise to tell the truth and nothing else and maybe then, you have no choice but to believe me. Ok. You ready?

I love to write. That's what I do, writing is me and I am it. Writing to me is not just a hobby, it's not just a passion and I don't just love it. Writing is an escape for me and sometimes a dystopia where I can be my true self and often, an outlet to pour all my thoughts and feelings into. At first, writing was just a thing I liked, something I would do after I would read all day. But that was before, before I knew what I could do with it, before it became my safe place and my sanctuary and ultimately, my prized possession.

Growing up, I was not the typical kid. I didn't play outside everyday like everyone else on the block - it wasn't my desire. I enjoyed reading even in my free time and didn't mind the writing assignments for school like everyone did. I asked for books to read for Christmas and would be in my room, happily reading my growing library whenever I was on punishment. Once my parents realized they couldn't tell me NOT to read despite it bringing me joy on these punishments, a pencil and paper was given. And that's where it really began, where the seed was planted. But how did the seed grow? I promised I would tell you the truth, so I must start in the middle because the beginning is just black and white.

Beginning: I started my hand in writing during my punishments. Middle: I did not know how to speak, not literally of course but my mouth could never form the words I wanted to say and often, I did not know what I wanted to say but knew I wanted to say something, anything. I was forced to be silent and my pencil allowed me to be loud and bold. Truthfully? I was sexually abused since I was four years old to the age of ten. When I tried to speak my truth to two trusted adults, whom I will keep a secret, I was not believed and this happened at age four when the abuse was still relatively new. Upon my words being shut down, I never spoke again, not truthfully. I pretended to be happy all the time, I said I was fine. I would still laugh and even crack a smile. I was the girl you viewed me as - the one running around, playing and could land a joke and take one. But, I wasn't just that girl. I was the girl who would smile but my heart would be cracking too. I was the girl who would run around and play but I was also the girl who wanted to simply run away. I was happy but I was also sad and confused. So, no I wasn't that happy or that sad, I was a combination of both.

When the abuse paused, my pencil continued. My frustrations came rushing out of me onto the paper, all my resentment and hate and anger poured right from my heart. When I wanted to say " I need help!" and couldn't, my pencil did it for me. Writing was where I was able to escape, able to get my thoughts out properly. Writing was my answer to happiness and hope.

I would write about me, family, friends and strangers. I would write fiction, nonfiction, poetry, mystery and romance. When I thought I had no one else, my writings never told me " you're lying" or " you're not good enough!". Whether they came from the heart and true experiences and feelings or just simply my creativity swirling and words came to me naturally without thinking, I wrote and continued to write. I wrote about helping me, helping others like me, I wrote to help others - placing them into better situations or where the answers they received in real life differed to the ones I made up to satisfy them and make them happy. I wrote for fun, wrote for hope, wrote for answers and comfort.

My teachers recognized I had a gift, a real talent as they would say for writing and encouraged me to do something with it. My doubt always overshadowed the praise unfortunately but I never stopped writing. I just kept them to myself and only shared them when I felt like it, which was rare. My teachers and those I've shared pieces with enjoyed reading what I had to say before they thought I was different. They believed the way I spoke at a young age was a glimpse into something more. Those who know my passion for writing and witnessed it, love to see what I come up with next especially when I would write for the heck of it and let my juices flow. They believed that I had a way with words.

I love to let my creativity explore and let my and others experiences influence my characters' emotions. In fact, at my lowest point in my life, I started a book that I hope to publish one day. The purpose of the book is to bring awareness to other survivors of any kind of abuse, shine a light on trauma and bring help to it. And most of all, give others like me a voice that was taken away from them.

So, there you have it. Writing is more than just a passion to me, it's a necessity. If you see a piece of writing from me, it may be from personal experience or it can be completely made and just be me wanting to tell a story about this made up character in this made up world doing this made up thing. Whatever it may be, I hope that everyone who reads what I have to say, understands I wrote either to shine a light or I wrote to entertain them.

And if I could write a story or book good enough to help someone else in the world, to have somebody read my novel(s) or stories and say that my words inspired them or just a publish a story that everyone in the world can find on the book shelves or online enjoys, that would be enough for me. If some publishing company could trust me enough to do that then, no amount of money would hold the same value as that would to me.