Ever since I was a kid, I’ve had an obsession with the written word. I remember how enamored I was with books, and captivated by stories; I couldn’t believe that people, regular old human beings, created them. As amazing as the human mind is, back then, the richness and complexity of books, even fairy tales, baffled me; but, I wanted to become one of those authors ever so much. So, I started writing, and I wrote as often as I could; I wrote stories of heroes and villains, tales of my own favorite superheroes, and I wrote about my life as though it were different, a life within my own control.
As a kid, you mainly feel like things happen to you, rather than you happening to things, and that sense of vulnerability is carried in you until adulthood. Although, that sense is normal, it’s amplified by a difficult home and being bullied in school; so, a great portion of my childhood was filled with despair and a hope that my life would magically change, my world, and everything in it, becoming like one of my many childhood stories, concluding with a real home and a loving family in the end.
Although I felt trapped in a vortex of school and home-life, writing was my escape; it was that thing which brought me solace, catapulting me into a life outside of mine. Some of my favorite childhood memories are those related to my creations, even if the story was an imagined storyline for the WWF in which Stone Cold Steve Austin somehow found his way into a WCW wrestling ring, challenging Sting for the heavyweight title. In my world, writing and storytelling meant everything to me; in a way, it defined who I was.
Later in life, when I had a seemingly unlimited amount of questions, it seemed as though the authors had a seemingly unlimited amount of answers. Plato, Aristotle, Freud, Jung, Buddha, Darwin… they answered my deepest questions about life, and taught me the meaning of suffering, showing me the process of attaining happiness. even if momentarily so. My long sought-after sense of peace was discovered, and created, through their books, through their understandings of why the world, and my own life, were the way in which they were; and, it was in their works that I finally found my home.
Although my desire to write professionally remains aflame, in my few years of maturing I’ve learned to become content to write for its own sake. Writing, to me, still provides a source of comfort and affords me the opportunity to gather my thoughts and make sense of my world, and of my negative thinking. And in terms of depression and anxiety, writing can become your best tool, as it has been for me since I was a boy. Through all of my rejection and heartbreak, my books reminded me that I wasn’t a failure. They were there to remind me of what mattered, helping me recall the limitations of success and the necessity of emotional intimacy. In contemplation of life and my inevitable death, my gratitude lies in the relationships I’ve built, the material I’ve created, and the affect of my work on others; but, none of these realizations would’ve been possible without my love for writing, and without the impressions of the thinkers of years-past. I’m presently at an important juncture of my life, having to decide where to go next in my career; although I’m not sure which path I’ll choose, I am certain that, wherever I go, my writing will be coming along for the ride.