Writing Has Always Set Me Free

TW: this article contains mention of nonconsensual sex. Readers are advised to take care while reading.

For as long as I can remember, I have written my feelings down.

At first, when I was a child, it was all about creating fantasy realms. Imaginary worlds where I was everything I wanted to be: an elite equestrian rider, a rescue vet, a little girl who could secretly fly, one of the kids from The Magic Faraway Tree.

As I got older, into my tween and teen years, writing became a way to process feelings that felt far too complicated to untangle in my mind alone. It was where I unpacked my excruciating crushes — Why won’t he just look at me?! I’m sure if he did, we’d fall in love. It was where I gushed about first kisses, only to later grovel over why they hadn’t asked me to be their girlfriend. It was where I tried to make sense of my dad’s anger and why he always seemed to find something about me to pick on.

It was where I worked through my first experience with sex, which was non-consensual with a friend’s boyfriend. It was where I poured my broken heart out over all the friends I lost through that process, who chose to believe him over me. It was where I mourned my innocence, my virginity, and my trust in the people around me.

Throughout those more tumultuous years, writing became my best friend and confidant. No matter what I was going through or how I was feeling, no matter the mess, I could always turn to the page. I could pour my heart out with limitless drama and it would never judge me. It would never tell me I was overreacting. It would never say I should’ve seen it coming. It never scolded me for not doing better. It just sat there, patiently waiting to be filled, soaking up my tangled thoughts until they felt a little less tangled and I could think straight again.

At the time, I didn’t think much of my writing. I just knew I needed to do it.

I’ve always lived very much inside my own head. I’ve always felt deeply. Sometimes, I think, too deeply for the Western world to quite know what to do with. Whenever I’d indulge in my romantic or self-indulgent thoughts with friends, I’d almost always get the sense that they didn’t understand — or didn’t feel things with the same intensity. They’d roll their eyes, change the subject, say something utterly unhelpful. Eventually, I felt I had no choice but to keep my feelings to myself and to the page.

Years later, I’d go back and read those scrolling pages of messy youthful feelings and feel an overwhelming sense of compassion for that girl. I was surprised by how much sense my mind had made of things, even in moments when it had felt completely out of control. My writing gave me a deep understanding of what I had gone through.

That was when I realised writing was a gift. Something that helped me stay sane in this crazy life. Something that gave a little method to the madness. And perhaps something that could help other people understand themselves, too.

I’ve been writing ever since. It has become my identity, my career, and my saving grace. The only time I’ve truly struggled to write over the past ten years was during my previous relationship.

I found myself constantly void of ideas and creativity. I could no longer access my inner voice. This Phoebe Waller-Bridge-in-Fleabag style monologue that, unbeknownst to me, I’d been building my entire life, simply wasn’t there anymore. Whenever I tried to write, I’d just go around in circles. My mind felt like fog. I didn’t know if what was happening in my head was the truth. I felt I couldn’t trust my version of events, my narrative, or my judgement anymore.

This kind of thing creeps up on you. When you spend years alongside someone who is constantly questioning your choices, the parts of yourself that have always felt most integral begin to feel like a figment of your imagination. You start to question what makes you you.

I learnt that this deeply affects your internal monologue. That little voice inside your head — the one that keeps you safe, guides you through life and helps you trust your gut — starts to fade. I didn’t realise it was happening until I tried to write; and the words wouldn’t come.

I kept second-guessing myself, as though I had this evil little voice sitting on my shoulder, encouraging me to question my own reality. It was him. And he wasn’t helping, like he’d always insisted he was. He was taking away my voice. When I finally realised that and left the relationship, I began to write again.

I’ll never forget the moment. I was sitting on the floor of Palermo Airport with a little notebook and pen I’d bought from an Italian newsagent. My phone was on 15% battery and charging painfully slowly, so I decided to try and write. I’d just left my boyfriend in the middle of our European holiday. I needed a clean break, I needed to be alone, I needed space to think.

As I sat there on the airport floor, sweating in the poorly ventilated environment European buildings so often provide, the words started to flow. The fog began to lift. Everything slowly started to make sense again.

I’d never really appreciated my inner voice — my ability to write my feelings down with clarity and ease — until I’d spent years without it. Getting it back felt like getting myself back and I never wanted to lose it again.

I think we all have something that gives us clarity of mind. For some people it’s exercise. For others it’s painting, cooking, hiking or having a Pilates routine. For me, it’s writing. These things, the things that bring us sanity in a world full of competing opinions, narratives and structures, are so important to hold onto.

They are the things that will continue to bring us back to ourselves, that will lead us to where we’re meant to be.

This piece was written for Fluff in collaboration with The Ritual by KIC, currently discussing the theme: “Method in the Madness.”

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