I write. I have always written. Not because I have something polished or profound to say, but because if I don’t, I might not survive. Writing is my coping mechanism, my anchor, my most intimate confession to myself. It sits beside me when the rest of the world feels like too much - too loud, too heavy, too sharp. More than that, writing is honest. Raw. Unfiltered. I cannot hide behind it. I cannot pretend. And maybe that is why I cling to it so fiercely.

I write on Instagram. Yes, Instagram - but not for pictures. Never for pictures. I write because it gives me a space, a fleeting stage where my thoughts, my feelings, my self-loathing, my loves, my grief, all get poured out. Stream-of-consciousness, in the way my mind actually flows. No edits, no careful curation, no prettifying. It’s messy, chaotic, and painfully, impossibly human. Some people see it and comment, “You write so well.” And I smile, or nod, or type a thank you. But part of me wonders - do I even know what “well” means? Because writing, for me, is never about skill. It’s about survival.

There was a time in my childhood when I stopped writing. My sister said my writing was full of jargon, full of big words that no one would understand. And I took it to heart. I stuffed my notebooks into drawers, left them there for months, maybe years. It took a long time to find my voice again, to remember that I write for myself first, for anyone else second. I write to feel. To feel less alone. To feel alive when every other part of life is pressing, suffocating, overwhelming.

Now, some people say I write well. I write for websites. I earn from my writing. And yes, that makes me feel something. A little confidence. A little happiness. Proof that the way I experience the world, the way I process it all through words, is not meaningless. But it’s complicated. Because writing, for me, has never been about recognition. It’s about survival. It’s about sitting with my sadness, my depression, my guilt, my shame, and letting the pen translate it into something tangible. Something I can hold. Something I can breathe through.

I write when I am sad. When I am hurt. When I am angry. When I am apologetic. When I am afraid. When I am nostalgic. When I am alive in the most unbearable ways. Writing is the one thing that keeps me tethered to myself. Self-harm is a release, yes, a physical punctuation of my pain, but writing-writing is the conversation with that pain. Writing makes me confront it, sit with it, and somehow, paradoxically, transform it.

I write in notebooks. I write on phones. I write wherever the words land first, because timing matters. Because urgency matters. Because pain cannot wait for the paper to be “perfect.” Every page I fill, every post I publish, is a survival ritual. A reminder that I am here. That I still exist. That the chaos of my mind has form, even if only on a page.

Sometimes, I read my older pieces and I flinch. They are too raw, too jagged, too loud. And I am embarrassed, and yet proud. Because that was me, fully alive, fully bleeding into words. And isn’t that what writing is for? To bear witness to yourself in ways that no one else can?

It is not always easy. Sometimes I write and feel nothing. Sometimes I write and realize that words cannot capture the weight of what I feel. Sometimes I write, and I am surprised at the anger or longing or desire that I didn’t even know was there. Writing is a mirror, but a cruel one. It reflects all the parts of me I would rather hide. And yet, I keep going back. Always.

I write for the little joys, too. For the quiet moments of love, of connection, of remembrance. For the scraps of beauty that pierce the dark. My writing is not just suffering. It is also tenderness. It is also a delight. It is also laughter. And sometimes it is the only place where I can combine all those things without apology.

I write because I am in love with words. Because I am in love with the act of turning thought into something physical, something to be seen, something that might reach someone else, even if only for a moment. I write because it is the closest I come to controlling something in this unpredictable, relentless world. And because when everything else falls apart, writing is always there. Waiting. Patient. Unjudging.

And yet, there is vulnerability. There is risk. Every time I write, I expose myself. Every post is a little peeling away of the armor I have worn for years. And maybe that’s why it hurts so much. Maybe that’s why it matters so much. Because it is not performance. It is true. My truth. My survival.

Writing is my refuge. Writing is my rebellion. Writing is my proof that I have lived, and that I have felt, and that I have refused to be silent. Writing is my witness, my confession, my lifeline. And as long as I can, I will keep writing. Because writing, above everything, keeps me breathing. Keeps me here. Keeps me alive.

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