“I’ve been writing since my mother birthed me.” These are the words that rang in my head as I looked at the piece of paper in front of me.
Yesterday I was sorting through papers and came across an award I won in second-grade for creative writing. Reading the paper, I was overwhelmed with a sense of nostalgia. These were the days when life, for the most part, was simple. These were the days when my journals were full of innocent entries. When I wrote for fun. Well, I still write for fun but now my journals are full of anger and pain. They are full of tear stains as I unpack each bag I’ve held on to for years. Regardless of the dread I feel while unpacking, I love writing. It’s always been here, even when I spent months hiding from my notebook and pen. It’s always loved me, even when I neglected it.
Lately, I’ve been daydreaming about being a child again. As strange as it sounds, I want a redo of childhood. I want to go back to when school was fun and my biggest worry was not being able to go outside because I didn’t clean my room. I want to go back to my childhood brain, the healthy one. Before I was 10 going on 25. Before I struggled with bipolar disorder, suicidal ideation, self-harm, and anxiety. I want to go back and appreciate moments I took for granted.
While I have no memory of the day in second-grade when I received this award, looking at it makes my fingers dance. It reminds me of the writer I have always been.