I Am Not Writing For You

I almost had to repeat the first grade. My teacher was so appalled by the poor quality of my handwriting, that she could not justify sending me on to the second grade. After intensive lobbying by my parents, and my promise to work on my penmanship over the summer, I was granted permission to continue on to the second grade. My half-hearted attempt at practicing writing print letters on a chalkboard in my basement, did not prove successful. My second grade teacher was just as, if not more, alarmed by my incomprehensible penmanship. My handwriting, illegible to them, was perfectly readable to me.

I wrote in my own way.

My seventh grade Language Arts teacher told me I wasn’t allowed to write anymore. While the rest of the class wrote their assignments in their notebooks, I was given the hall pass and told to go to the computer lab. I begged her to let me write my assignments like everyone else, but she said she’d have to fail me, because she couldn’t read them. Unwillingly, I’d trek down to the computer lab every day during seventh period every single day. I raced through typing my assignments, so that I could use the remaining time to write whatever I wanted. I loved to write and she couldn’t stop me.

I wrote because I wanted to.

That year I started to keep a journal with me at all times. Once in awhile, my seventh grade Language Arts teacher would catch me writing in it. “That better not be for my class,” she would say. It wasn’t for her class, but she was part of the reason that I had to write in the journal. There is something sacred about scribbling down words onto a physical piece of paper. Watching the ink stain the paper, and your hands if you are not careful.Most of the journal contained snippets of the time I spent in a wheelchair after some unfortunate circumstances struck. I chronicled my journey of being on two wheels instead of two legs in a sparkly green, spiral notebook.

I wrote everything in that journal.

While everyone else played sports in the gym at lunch, while I sat alone in the corner at the school dance, while I watched from the window while my brothers sledded down the driveway, I wrote. And I wrote. Then I wrote some more. It was all I had. It was the only thing I felt like I had not lost. The more I wrote, the worse my handwriting got. The thoughts spilled onto the paper, so quickly that there simply was not time to perfect each letter. I probably would have lost my sanity if I had not spent all my newly acquired free time writing.

I wrote because I had to.

I still have the journal. It is in my desk drawer at home buried under everything I have written since that time. Last summer, my mother was cleaning out my desk and she found my beloved sparkly green notebook. She sent me a picture of the first page followed by a message that said, “Remember when you used to write in code. Can you even still remember how to read it?” I never wrote in code. Well, not on purpose anyway. I asked my mother to send me the journal, and she did. The writing in my journal is incomprehensible to any eyes except mine, since I never really learned how to write legibly. I remember that my mom pleaded at the time that I type it on a computer, because I would want to be able to read it later in life. She, too, tried to stop me from writing. She, too, was unsuccessful.

I wrote in that notebook anyways.

I read through every page of it, understanding every word. I had forgotten how much that journal had meant to me. Reading it all those years later was like reading a story. I was somewhat disconnected from it. I read these stories about myself, but it seemed like they were about someone else. I seemed like nothing more than a character in a book. There were parts of the story that were devastating like when the doctors told the girl she was never going to be able to play sports again. There were parts of the story that were inspiring like when she learned to run again, despite all odds. There were parts of the story that were so sad they were almost comical like when she got stuck in the bathroom or accidentally tipped her wheelchair down a flight of stairs. I could not help but laugh at myself, at all the little things I had forgotten.

I wrote for the story.

I cannot really recall any of the specific stories or incidents in the journal. I cannot remember the time I watched my brothers sledding from the window and cried because I wanted to be frolicking in the snow too. Maybe that is why I feel so disconnected from the girl in the journal. I can remember, though, how I felt. When the girl talks about feeling like an outsider, having nobody to turn to except her journal and wanting to give up, I remember. I remember the heartbreak. I remember being terrified. But, then, I remember prevailing. I don’t remember cartwheeling out of the door on my last day of physical therapy, but when I read my journal, I remember the feeling. The feeling of freedom. I remember the fight.

I wrote to remember.

The space between the girl in the journal and me seemed to close as I remembered from her feelings that I was her.  That I am her. It reminded me that I am the girl who did what she was told she never could. To be able to read my journey, to know every thought I had during one of the most difficult times in my life gave me an indescribable feeling. That journal is a simple reminder to myself, that I can and I did. Without that journal, I would not remember what I am capable of.

I wrote to inspire myself.

Having a handwritten journal is like having an artifact from the museum that is my life. It wouldn’t be the same to have it on a computer screen. I run my fingers over the letters and can feel the indentations in the paper. Some words I can barely feel, while others are deeply penetrating the surface of the paper. I can feel the mood I was in any particular day by how much pressure I put into the pen. I can see that some of the pages are still stained by my tears. It did not bother me back then, nor does it bother me now that no eyes besides mine are capable of reading the journal. After not being allowed to write in school, I grew up writing for myself. I never spent a moment thinking about who the audience would be, because I knew no audience would ever be able to read it. It allowed me to write whatever I was feeling, not caring who might be offended, who might disagree, who might not understand.

I wrote unapologetically.

I wrote for myself.

I write for myself.