Originally, I never wanted to be a writer. I detested reading, and I wasn’t the least bit interested in learning enough in English class to learn how to write a proper paragraph.
To be honest, I never chose to start writing, I was more forced into it than anything. I had an acquaintance when I was twelve, one I considered my best friend at the time.
Having dealt with much bullying in my life, it wasn’t unusual for others to laugh at me, make fun of me, or make me do something I didn’t want to do. That would be everything that this individual did. She pushed me into reading, even though I hated it. She Manase me write stories, even though I had no interest in the activity.
I thought all of this was normal.
As the years went by and the abuse from this person continued, I set my sights on being an author. A published author. I spent twelve years writing and re-writing a book that I was never satisfied with. Then, one day, this person disappeared. It only came to my attention years later that my mom intervened and forbid her to speak to me or come anywhere near our house.
Thank goodness for wonderful, intuitive mothers.
Years after that, I continued to write, but it was only within the last two months that I discovered the true reason I was writing: to prove that I had worth. To show I was worth something. Then, the second realization came to me. It wasn’t that individual that I was trying to prove this to, I was trying to prove it to myself.
It’s interesting how our minds wrap us in lies and false desires to protect ourselves from the nature of abuse and being bullied.
Now, I love writing. It is a passion of mine. So, I often ask myself: if I had never ran into that person and suffered so many years, would I have never found an actual passion for writing?
I don’t know. All I know is that the past is in the past and that success is the best revenge.
And that’s good enough for me.