Demons Evolve Answers

I want to be a writer because I want to change the world. Yes, I know that sounds clichéd and somewhat monotonous, because everybody says that-but it’s the truth. I want to do something great, I want to be widely known, and I want to make a difference. I want my voice to be heard, because honestly, given everything that’s happened, I feel like I have something important to say. And no, it’s not self-indulgent. I’d like to think I could use my experiences to help people, and make even the slightest difference.

I started writing when I was four years old. Even though I couldn’t write in anything but chicken scratch, I filled up page after page of composition books, notebooks, blank pages, napkins--anything I could get my hands on. Sometimes, even I couldn’t read what I’d scrawled, but oddly enough, I understood it, because it was always stored in the back of my mind. Writing has always been my solace, and my way of escape from what was going on around me. I grew up in an unstable environment, and never knew where I’d be sleeping each night. Some nights, it was a matter of survival for my siblings, my mother, and I. My dad would come home in drunken rages and storm about the house, shouting, at all hours of the night and early morning. Often, he was pissed off. Yeah, I’m saying it right now, I was an abused kid. I used to be ashamed of it, and it was something that I became an expert at hiding from the world, but now I don’t. I’m tired of pretending, tired of lying about it, and trying to cover up the reasons for why my own father never loved me like he should of.

For nineteen years, I was often emotionally, verbally, mentally,and sometimes physically, abused by my father. The sad thing is, it took me nineteen years to realize it. They often say that abused kids live in denial, or aren’t aware that it’s just that--abuse. So, no, I’m not going to advertise it, but if you ask me about it, I’m not going to lie. No, I don’t have any contact with my dad, or try not to anyways, and if you ask me how I’d feel if he died, I’d give you a straight answer-ask me when it happens, and I’ll let you know. As far as I’m concerned I have no father, and my mother is doing one hell of a job considering what she went through for twenty-three years.

Writing became the only way to keep my sanity, and possibly one of the only things that kept me from becoming one of those “problem children.” Every time I felt anything at all, any sort of emotion, I wrote about it. Parents are always like “come to me if you have a problem,” but I could never go to mine. So, those notebook pages and pens became some of my best friends. It’s the only thing I ever felt a connection to, because I always felt that somehow, I was…different from the other kids. I always felt like my mind processed things totally different from any one else, and nobody ever understood, or accepted, what it was like. I guess I can say that I’m used to feeling withdrawn from the rest of the world, considering I have no idea what healthy relationships, or stable environments, are supposed to be like. And no, I’m not using my abusive childhood as a crutch for anything, or an excuse, because it doesn’t change who I am as a person, it just explains a lot of the reasons why I see the world so differently. Actually, sometimes, I guess discussing my past can actually be used as a tool to help others, or maybe that’s why I’m so good at solving others’ problems, but never my own.

I ultimately knew I wanted to be a writer when I entered high school. That’s when I really had to start thinking about what I wanted to do with my future, just where I wanted to go to school, and what I wanted to go for. Before that, I had the usual childhood dreams of race-car driver, explorer, and even considered attending medical school at one point. From the time I was a child, I knew I wanted to help people and to tackle a world where so few know the harshness of it, and even the smallest things can make a difference. In sixth grade up until sophomore year, I wanted to actually be an archeologist and Egyptologist until about five years ago. Yes, Ancient Egypt holds my passion, and my love for adventure, but I’m also smart enough to know it’s not going to pay the bills. I grew up with nothing, so, no, I do not want to have nothing in my future as well. I decided to pursue my passion for writing when my favorite English teacher, Ms. Paquette, told me I should consider a career in writing, during my sophomore year of class with her. She told me I had such a fierce passion, a fearlessness, and a considerable style of voice in my writing, that I should let the rest of the world hear it. So, that’s when I decided why not be a writer, it’s the thing I’m most passionate about. And well, it’s the thing that defines me the most. So, why not follow a dream, and attempt to change the world.

I feel like I have been asked so many times about what I want to write about, but each time the answer changes. Truthfully, I want to write about everything. I want to write about love, lust, romance, death, loss, pain, sorrow, joy, exploration, discoveries, wonder, life, everything that deserves to be written about. I want to write about the unknown, the mysterious, the taboo, everything that others are too afraid to write about. Because, that’s what I do. That’s what I am. Fearless, as Jim Ellefson often told me in my writing during his classes. I write with my voice, my own thoughts, my own style, and god forbid anyone stand in my way. I don’t let others tell me what to do or how to do it, I discover on my own, and charge full force. That’s probably why I earned the nickname Trouble. Sometimes I’m a little too impulsive, a little too forceful, a little too crude, a little too careless, a little too in-your-face, a little too aggressive. But that’s how I am, and I can’t change it. Nor do I want to. It’s made me into who I am, and how I write. I write the same way in which I live--with enthusiasm, with an open, curious, colossal sense of wonder, and with passion. I live (or try to) to the fullest, so why not write to the fullest?

I’m going to be completely, absolutely honest for once in a long time. I am tired of hiding my past, tired of holding back the tears, and tired of pretending everything’s okay. The truth is, it isn’t. It never has been for me. And something tells me it never will. I have been through more, much more than a lot of people I know, than I should have in the last twenty years. I never had that fairytale. My entire life has been an unstable, rocky path and whenever it seems to get clear, some other boulder comes tumbling down. So, the only thing that has ever kept me going is my dreams, my passion, and my ability to write. It’s the only way I know how to make any sort of sense out of the chaos that is my life. No, I’m not saying I’ve been through the worst, or that others don’t have it worse than I do, but I’m not going to sit here and tell you everything is okay. It’s not, and it’s high time I use this outlet to finally let go of what’s been building up inside me.

For the last couple of months, I have been going up to UVM for a sort of trauma therapy. I was going for an evaluation of sorts, I guess. So, last Wednesday, I finally had answers to what has been haunting me for so long. I finally had a diagnosis. A label. I was diagnosed with Somanization Disorder. No, don’t ask me what it is, because I barely understand it myself. But, to make some sense of it, I guess it’s been developing since I was a kid. I didn’t know grow up in a stable, healthy environment, and I have no idea what one is. I have no idea what stable, healthy relationships are like, and even how to recognize one, or handle one. I was never raised with how to accept, learn about, deal with, or interpret emotions. So it gave me a fucked up childhood. It’s no wonder why I write with such emotion.

I am struggling to even find any sort of evidence of what is healthy and what is stable, because for the first twenty and a half years of my life, I’ve been floundering. This was the last thing I wanted dropped on my head. Yes, it confuses me, and yes I wish it hadn’t of happened. But instead of regretting this, it actually gives me some directions, some answers. If it’s one thing I hate, it’s being vulnerable, clueless, helpless, and being left wide open. No, it doesn’t mean I’m fucked up, I’m crazy, or I’m any sort of different person. What it means is it’s just another hurdle I have to overcome, another thing that’s going to test my strength. The disorder also comes from all of the trauma I have experienced in my life, and in the last nine years, it’s been a lot--so it surprises me I am not a wreck most of the time. Turns out I’m actually stronger than I ever thought, and I am able to function somewhat normally.

Along with this Somanization Disorder comes a long list of other things, among them: Chronic PTSD (which I’ve already known I’ve had since the age of twelve) and borderline ADHD like tendencies. A lot of the other things that come with it, I’d rather not discuss at this time, because it would just lead people labeling me as fucked up or crazy. But what this had made me realize is that now I have so much more to write about, so much more to explore, and so much more to know that I’ve survived. It also gives me a foundation, an outlet to reach out to others and use my experiences to help people. Not help them into experiencing the same things, of course, but help them realize they are not alone, that someone actually understands. Like I was talking to Tim about the other day, all this just gives me so much to write about, so many ways to make my voice heard. And, well, maybe in some twisted, fucked up way, it gives me a chance to change the world. It shows me that even when I’m breaking, slowly, and silently, some resistant part of me wakes up and pushes me through, determined that I keep going. It shows that I’m not ready to give up. Not yet.

So, with this long list of trauma, comes the courage to write about it. It’s a way to go into the silence and bring back what’s not being heard, what’s not being dared to talk about. The world can be an ugly, unstable place full of malice, turmoil, and heartache, and somebody has to write about it, so why not someone with a sort of experience? This, this is what I want to write about--what so many others are afraid to. People need to know, and maybe it’s me that has the right to write about it. It seems that perhaps I even have the courage, the determination, and the heart to do so. Yes, a lot of it scares the shit out of me, and tears me apart to write about, but it’s something I have to do. In a way, it seems like it’s the only way I’m ever going to heal from any of my mental or emotional scars.

How am I going to write about it, or display it as a portfolio of my work? The answer actually hit me the other day, funnily enough. I have this thick, black, leather book I write in, almost everyday. It’s filled with blank, white pages, and is probably meant to be a sketchbook, but I use it as my everything. As an account of the world and experiences through the eyes of a redhead who’s seen too much for her short life. Within the book is my collection of thoughts, my feelings, questions, answers, drawings, random sayings, poems, stories, quotes, anything I’ve ever written recently, anything that just pops into my mind. But what I think it shows the most, is the inner me, my true self that I very rarely let anyone see. The person that I’ve become so adept at hiding. I also think it shows my growth as a writer because this is it, it’s real, it’s emotional, it’s truth. A lot of writers start out with using their own personal experiences to help others, and honestly, I think I’m at a point in my life where I can begin that. I can use my own experiences, my own traumas, to inform others of how life can really be, and to do so in a collection of letters. They wouldn’t be addressed to anyone in particular, but a sort of journal--a creative nonfiction one.

I would also love to write about Egypt within these letters, because that’s the one other thing that’s held my love and passion for so many years. So, no, I don’t have a solid, concrete idea of what these letters would consist of or contain, but in truth, ideas change all the time, as often as the weather or the seasons do. All I know is I’d write in the fashion that I do, or live, everything else-with enthusiasm, interest, determination, compassion, sympathy, energy, love, creativity, and most of all, with passion. For my life would be nothing if I didn’t have passion.