I’ll never forget the first time the power of writing became real to me. At fifteen years old, I decided to take up poetry, and at the time, I thought it was the best decision I could have ever made. I was struggling with depression, and I’d even toyed with suicidal thoughts. My mind was just beginning to accept its fate as it fell into shambles. I was sick; I had a mental illness. I didn’t want to admit it, but writing helped me to accept the reality. I had to get it all out somehow, but I just couldn’t speak when it came time to open my mouth and explain what was happening. So, I wrote. I played with words and phrases until I thought they accurately represented what I was thinking. Then, it happened. I had finally found a way to talk about myself without making a sound while still saying so much.
The sun upon her cheek
The flower in her hair
Her radiance and beauty
Appearing everywhere.
Perfection, you may say.
But there’s much more to see.
What more exists to this pretty little girl
Lying underneath the tree?
No one can imagine the inside,
Her constant awful moods.
Her lovely face masks the pain
Upon which she consistently broods.
Who wants to look beyond beauty?
Past the joy and pleasure and bliss?
No human wants to face the truth.
That life is much more than this.
Life will involve sorrow.
There will be pain, anguish, and distress.
There’s no means of true escape.
Except to simply express.
This poem was my first means of escape from the pain inside my head by taking control of it. I may have been young, but my entrance into the world of writing showed me the power language has to voice my feelings without producing a sound. This poem started me on a journey toward healing through the written word.
Language, the compilation of words into meaningful communication, has shaped me in more ways than I ever thought imaginable. The ability to express thought, to capture the emotions and passions that make up one’s inner self—that, I believe, is power. Language holds the power to voice one’s innermost feelings while triggering reactions that the language bearer may never have intended. That’s how I discovered the healing power held within the words I wrote. I never knew that writing could become a form of therapy for me.
Even though it took some time for me to discover their healing power, words have always fascinated me. I often pondered that every book I read was nothing more than a particular combination of symbols that, placed in the right order, created a captivating story. I wanted to do that. I loved writing short stories as a child, but I didn’t think anything would come of the delight I found in analyzing words. At the time, I considered it little more than a hobby. I had yet to comprehend the world of words that awaited me for when I could appreciate the study of language for what it was—a science.
I hate science, at least in the traditional sense. I’ve never done well in chemistry or biology classes, and I couldn’t even handle the thought of studying anatomy. But I’ve always enjoyed the concept of science and appreciated those who patient enough to research and study the inner workings of an object or creature. I never thought I could do that until I found the object that piqued my interest enough to explore its inner workings. I suppose, though, that I’ve always understood the importance of background work to a final product. As a musician, I’ve spent hours upon hours rehearsing and practicing my clarinet with different wind ensembles in preparation for the many concerts I’ve performed. The pieces always come together as a beautiful mosaic of sounds that showcase our talents, but few recognize the importance of everything that occurs behind the scenes, from the tuning of the ensemble to the tightening of screws on individual horns. To me, knowledge of the inner workings makes the final product that much more fascinating.
I think about myself that way sometimes. I’d like to think that knowing the inner workings of my mind makes me more interesting, even if just to myself. Not only am I incredibly interested in language, from morphology to rhetoric, but I love to use that language to portray a picture of my own mind. My mind is little more than a jumbled collection of thoughts and experiences that I simply must use language to express both to myself and to others. What I find entertaining, though, is using language in such a way that I can both declare my thoughts while crafting the words to mirror the disorder inside my head.
I wonder sometimes if that’s the most interesting thing about me, that I enjoy studying language and analyzing its structure and semantics. I enjoy other things too, though few things more than words and their varied meanings. For instance, I love places where I can explore words within the deep crevices of my mind, where I can think without being disturbed. My bed is one of those places. For most, one’s bed merely represents rest, relaxation, and sleep, but my bed holds more meaning than that. My bed allows me to escape into my mind, a place where words can run rampant with no comprehendible order but where I can understand everything. My covers protect me from the thoughts of others adding to my organized chaos, thoughts that force mine back into order so that I can communicate effectively with another.
I don’t use language solely to communicate with others; I use it to communicate with myself. I write and craft my words carefully so that I understand them in the hopes that others, if they must read my thoughts, can follow along as well. I suppose writing is a fairly selfish endeavor for me, and yet I’m attending university to study writing solely for others’ understanding. I have to write with clarity, conciseness, fluency, and correct grammar to ensure that the reader can easily follow my writing. Beyond that, I can’t write for myself. I can’t even write as myself. I must write under the guise of the brand I represent, so no one should be able to read my personality between the lines.
I struggle to find a balance between the two. I prefer to write for myself, for my own understanding, but unfortunately, I know that won’t get me far in life. I have to make money somehow, so I figured, why not make money doing something I enjoy? I’ve prostituted myself in a way, but that’s the only way to get by, really. I have to sacrifice something in order to make money and survive. Technical writing isn’t so bad. I like the challenge of clarifying and simplifying complex information. I like using my knowledge of the English language and its grammar rules to create the most correct texts I can. Besides, do the two have to be mutually exclusive? I write; that should be all that matters.
In reality, though, I know where the problem lies. I feel comfortable in that disarray; it’s what I’m used to. Mental illness can do that to you—it removes the order and stability from your mind, leaving you with a mess to figure out on your own. Eventually, that becomes your normal. But it can only be normal for me if I take control of it. That’s why my journal is so important to me. Journaling gives me the freedom to analyze my thought processes without outside judgment. I write, in that sense, for me alone. The jumbled mess of my mind that I feebly attempt to portray to those without a clue as to what happens inside my brain. I barely understand what happens up there, but that’s part of my writing process. I can’t write about what I understand until I write in order to understand, and that’s what I find so intriguing about language.
That process doesn’t work in technical writing. I must write so that others may understand, so I am forced to remove myself from the muddled parts of my brain and move into organization. Language allows me to do that as well, though. The words I use can represent utter chaos and confusion or clarity and precision, all depending on the context in which I use them.
I won’t act like that’s the best poem I’ve ever written, but I’ll never forget how much more I loved language after I wrote it. In the end, that’s why I write. No matter how much I must hide my personality through language or let it shine through with each word on the page, I write because speaking is difficult. Written language gives me the freedom to express more than I ever could through the spoken word. Language is power.
