Why do I write? I write because of the extensive use of my brain enables me to be carried away into outer worlds of my imagination. I love composing stories and other genres of writing. Writing is so freeing from the everyday stresses, hustle and bustle of life. It enables me to have a temporary escape from the world, because I can create lives not in existence in reality other than in print.
I can drift into realms of fire, where the aisles of the storm bequeath me to be empowered by what’s going on in the world both near and around me; thus, further studying it. When I write down events transpiring either in my life or in the lives of someone else, I gain clarity in the sense I obtain reflection on the events. I become distanced enough from the problem, enabling me to see the overall situation more clearly.
From the time I was a very small child all the way through my early twenties, writing afforded me some peace of mind. It was a form of a confidant. My parents couldn’t be trusted to confide. If anything, I viewed them as being dangerous, because of the violence they often inflicted upon me. During those difficult times in my life, writing was a form of comfort. It enabled me to maintain my sanity; thus, keeping me out of trouble.
I never dealt with my pain, suffering nor my troubles through the use of alcohol of drugs. My drug of choice was writing. I put my entire being into a given piece of writing. Without this form of therapy, I don’t know what I would have done. I had been deprived of every form of happiness when I was growing up. There was no way I’d allow my father to take away the pleasure I obtained from writing.
He dictated to me what I was to wear, how I was to fix my hair, how I was to walk, breathe, how many breathes I was to take at a time when breathing, how I was to swallow my food, when I was to blink, when I was not to blink, how many times I was to blink. Most of the time, I did what I wanted to do with respect to the things mentioned, because there was no logic in his demands. He punished me for things I should have never been punished for. He even beat up on me, just because he didn’t like my personality. Such things are stupid reasons to punish a child.
Through incorporating all of these things into my writing, I was enabled to deal with these and other problems in some way. Writing enabled me to get my anger and all of my other emotions out of my system.
Although my father inflicted punishment and torture upon me when I was going to college, because he didn’t approve of the subjects I was taking in school, I didn’t care. I was not about to surrender control to him. I refused to be a robot to him or to anyone. Knowing there was nothing he could do to stop me, he spat in my face. I slapped him.
Writing was a form of empowerment for me. It enabled me freedom to be myself. In my household, it was against my father’s laws for me to be myself. He didn’t like anything about me. He wanted me to be a replica of one his friend’s daughter, because he said she was the ideal girl. According to my father, she was the best girl there was, and I was to model my personality and everything about me after hers.
I told him, “Wait a minute. I’m not going to have her as my role model, particularly when she is a lot younger then I am. If anything, she should have me as her role model. I’m the ideal one, particularly when I don’t drink, I don’t smoke, and I certainly don’t roam around,” while yelling and smacking the walls.
I was determined to show him how wrong he was about me; however, I soon realized no matter what I did, I’d never be good enough in nor good at all in his eyes. To him, I was no good.
Writing has always made me feel good about myself. It enables me to inspire and empower people. Through my writing craft, I can make an impact on people in some way.
© Copyright, Kiki Stamatiou, 2015