I am sixteen years old standing in my kitchen arguing with my parents over something silly like a house party I wasn’t allowed to attend or how I think life is unfair. My disappointment turns to anger and my anger to sadness and before I know it I am sent up to my bedroom to cool down. Still shaken by the negative experience and agony I caused not only to myself, but also to my parents, I sit on my bed crying. I feel so many different emotions at once, but most of all I am mad—mad at myself for making such a big deal out of nothing. I pull out my journal, open up to a fresh page and begin writing. Only now do I know everything is going to be okay. Or at least it appears that way, as I spill my heart out in words.
At moments like this, writing is all that matters. The rest of the world is shut off and my thoughts travel from mind to pencil to paper. Sometimes I write in paragraph form and my ideas flow in chronological order, other times I scribble down every idea hoping to free them from my cluttered mind and still other times I write organized lists—and it all goes back to what I’m thinking. I write to express myself.