“Writing…” Fiction. Based on a True Writing Journey.

“Do the things that you love to do, your hundred and fifty percent anything in the moment.”

By Maya McClean


Fiction. Based on a True Writing Journey

by Gracie

This journal entry is inspired by true events. Some of the characters, names, businesses, incidents, and certain locations and events have been fictionalized for dramatic purposes. Any similarity to the name, character or history of any person is entirely coincidental and unintentional.

Trigger Warning: our program often motivates people to discuss their trauma. If you find yourself feeling overwhelmed, please, take a step back to address emotional flashbacks and trauma before continuing to push yourself. If you are experiencing a medical emergency, call 911 or the National Suicide Hotline at (1-800) 273-8255.

You’re lost in thought, writing. Writing and writing, the old school way. With a pen and a white paper. It’s the way you learned to write, just a pen and paper. Computers are easier, but it never compares to the way you feel with a pen in your hands. You’re in control of the pen, every letter has moved your muscles for a reason, rather than just being your fingers who do the tapping. You love to write. Writing has been a safe space since you can remember. 

When you were little, you had this little pink diary that wrote in invisible ink and you thought it was the coolest thing ever. It had a lock and you would guard the key as if it was your most prized possession. You would write your deepest darkest secrets. The darkest secrets being who your crush for the week was, or how your best friend left you alone today, or maybe it was about how your parents screams didn’t let you sleep. 

When you were a teen, you upgraded to a gray journal, with green flowers. You liked the odd combination. It had no lock, but you hid it in the back of your closet. You wrote about how your boobs were growing unparalleled from the other girls. They had voluptuous bodies, and you were odd-shaped. You wrote about how the boy you liked, liked another girl. You wrote about your first menstruation and how traumatizing it was to be told by your crush that your favorite jeans were stained. You wrote about your first kiss, and how awkward it was. You wrote about how he tried to touch you, but you didn’t let him so he called you a tease. You wrote about who you wish had been your first kiss, and how good he made you feel. You wrote about how he kissed another girl too and you felt your heart being ripped from your chest. You wrote about your first panic attack.

You’re an adult now. You write about real heartbreak. You write about being heartbroken by your parents, by your friends, by life. Your first example of love has been shattered and you’re not sure love exists. You write about the transition from high school, to college, to living by yourself. You write about wanting more, about aspiring for more, but more seems so far away. You still write about the panic attacks, because you keep getting them, some worse than others. You write about how life has been trying to take you down, and you keep succeeding at every test it throws your way because you’re still here. 

You continue to write. Your writing has taken its own course. You write and you write and when you read your words, they seem too beautiful to be yours. It’s as if your soul is writing, your hands are just the messenger. You still love to write with a pen and white paper. The pen is a different color though, you base it on your mood. It’s red when you feel anxious. You’ve been writing in red ink for a month now. It’s purple when you’re happy. The last time you wrote in purple you were 22.

You stare at the purple pen, it seems foreign. You throw it away. You grab a green ink pen, green is for hope. You’re going to write in green from now on.   

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