OMG how do I stop? The desire is urgent, the need obsessive. I don’t even know how to slow down — or if I should. I don’t know how to slow down — or if I should. Writing soothes me. It calms the racing, the buzzing, the constant static in my head. It’s the one place where I’m safe, honest, and unpretentious.
I can be myself without judgment or disapproval. I write. I pour every screwed‑up, nasty memory onto the page. I write until my fingers ache but my mind finally doesn’t. My memories used to bleed when they hit the paper — open wounds that hadn’t healed. Now, over time, I write from the scars. The wounds earned in battle. What once stung now only throbs. This is where I get to be me: honest, sarcastic about my own dumbass mistakes, unfiltered. It helps more than any drug ever could. It’s mine. All mine.
Writing is how I survive the explosions in my head. No apologies. No performance. Just truth. I’m not a survivor by any triumphant definition — I’m still on the battlefield, fighting the memories that need to be released before they consume me. Writing gives me control in the only way that makes sense: I decide how the story reads. I lace it with sarcasm because that’s the only language my pain responds to. That’s what helps me heal.
The need to write comes hard and fast. I’ll be doing something mundane and then — bam — it hits. I drop everything and write. It doesn’t matter what time it is, even if it’s the middle of the night. I lose myself in the keyboard, in the need — no, the demand — to get the chaos out of my head. It’s especially obvious when I’m watching a movie and have to hit pause because something pricked the bubble in my brain and the thoughts start leaking out. Once I start, time stops. Hours disappear. And somehow, I come out of it a little more whole.
I don’t write because I’m broken. I write so I don’t break.
I don’t stop. I’ll never stop. This is how I stay alive.
This is how I stay alive, and I’m done apologizing for it,
K.
I'm Still Here. Somehow... 