My whole life has always centered around art. I attended arts academies and took arts and creative writing and dance, I would try anything once. One of my favorite classes was pottery. And art was never about trying to be the best student, it was about creating something that satisfied me.
But I always found solace in writing. Over the years if I had a problem in my life, I hid in my little world I created. I used to write when I moved to a new school, during times of being bullied, to get through the tough times after I lost beloved family members, dealing with stress at works. I could go on for a long time.
After a debilitating illness, my doctor asked me did I remember a time when I was doing well in my life. Of course, I told him, it was before I was sick. I knew I probably would never get back to who I was before getting sick, but the question made me think. When I confessed I wrote stories, he told me it was cheap therapy and to restart my writing.
It was an odd prescription, and the first few stories were like riding a bike. The words came slow, but I kept at it, writing solely for my enjoyment. I fell off a few times and skinned my knees too. Soon, I zipped along and it felt like falling in love. I went over a cliff, falling into oblivion and I don’t think I’ve returned yet.
Not that I would want to!