who am I?

I planned to write this differently. In the plan, I'd depict my worst days -- the days that the depression, anxiety, and PTSD fight for attention. Then I'd depict what I still accomplish. That I'm still human-- that I have great moments and decent days, too. I would pitch my elevator speech (thirty seconds about what I "do" and how) into the world's web.

Then I went to the library.

Three weeks ago, I checked out two books: Long Live the Tribe of Fatherless Girls by T Kira Madden, and The Writer's Practice: Building Confidence in Your Nonfiction Writing by John Warner. The former took those three weeks to read. I soaked up each word. That book ended as my second favorite of all time.

Today I started to read the latter. The first experience asks the reader to write how to make a pb+j. I did that -- with many mistakes. Read the book.

Then it asked, "Who Are You? (As a Writer)." I started to scrawl across the pages in my soft journal. At the end of the second paragraph, I felt the gravity of the words. They show who I am.

---

As I remember it, I first wrote song lyrics. Some spewed words about love and desires (as a child views them at the age of five to nine). The most memorable contained a Christmas wish list. I didn't believe. Not in Santa or Jesus or receiving what I requested. "Mom wants the home loan done," I sang to my at-the-time grandpa, a man who non longer hears any of my thoughts.

Yes, to start, I longed for mortgages, a voice, and everyone else to get what they wanted. Perhaps I thought that in turn, life would look up for me. It didn't.

Song writing stopped.

In the third grade, I discovered the creative process. I painted, drew, sculpted... and wrote. Poetry. Lines of intrigue. What is poetry? I still can't say. In high school, national publishers thought that I knew. My words printed in two anthologies. They sit on a shelf in my room.

Before that, I started my first blog. It held words that I couldn't give to anyone else. The entity of the internet didn't count at the time. I shared thoughts about men -- in the eighth grade, I already discredited "boys" -- and school. I loved to hate them, just as much as I hated to love them.

I heard my voice growing.

Then the man I loved left. He moved hours away to drop-out of college. I didn't understand then. I do now. Unseen Letters began. When I couldn't hold the thoughts, and I couldn't trust the internet, I frantically typed. Pain, laughter... everything lived in those letters. On February 15, 2012, he accessed them. I developed a sense of bravery. I still celebrate that date.

Months' worth of adolescent lashes against the world she (I) inhabited flooded his mind. And he didn't say, "I love you," back.

"Never change," he wrote in boldface. I have.

I changed when I discovered the therapeutic ways that paper feels after scrawling across it. That ink smells after printing. that memories feel after sharing them.

My writing turned into my purpose. I often introduce myself with, "I'm a writer before I am anything else." That's true. If only I allowed the blinders of a psychology degree in place of therapy to remove themselves sooner...

During my sixth and final semester of undergrad, I took my favorite course: Creative Nonfiction and American Culture. Day one, I left feeling disgruntled and defeated. I joined the class for the elements of essays and memoirs, as a way to abandon my English major properly... replacing it with different words. I didn't sign-up for a semester's-worth of 9/11 readings. That's what I felt I had received.

In the end, I had much more. I felt proud of my writing. More than I had the year prior when I published an essay. I felt hopeful for growth. Most significantly, I felt home. Tears entered my eyes, blurring my vision, as I wrote that.

The professor wrote, "a perfect response to this assignment -- you're ready to teach this genre," on my last paper. I did the "impossible" and defined creative nonfiction. I remember clutching the paper to my chest, hugging the sentiment, embracing the weight of the words.

Soon after, I decided to start a new blog (this blog). A month later, I started to write my first book. In the two months following, I finished it. I started to form a writer's circle of my own, a support system for my words, wins, and losses. Then I lost it.

I lost myself.

For a year, I allowed my identity to hold "employee" first. I allowed myself to focus on others -- coworkers, family, friends, now-exes -- first. I told myself, "You're growing; you're changing." And I was.

Into the person I didn't want to be.

Stop.

I did that. Stopped.

Now I am changing. I am growing. I am focused on purpose and passion. I am living the life I want now, not later. I am writing.

I am a writer.