Writing Brought Me Back To Life

For me, writing is more than just putting pen to paper; it’s often the lifeline I didn’t know I needed. During a particularly tough period, I was engulfed in a fog of uncertainty and despair. The world around me felt heavy, each day a struggle. In those moments, writing became my sanctuary. So many times writing didn’t just save my life, it brought me back to it.

I've been writing for as long as I can remember. From song lyrics to poetry, short stories to plays. I was always writing. I think I was about five years old when I wrote my first song; mind you, it definitely needed some work. I would sing and play guitar while my friends made, what I think we can definitely class interpretive dances. As I got older, and stage fright really kicked in, I moved on from song lyrics to poetry. Looking back, some of my poems back then were dark... Like, wow, eleven-year-old me was definitely in my emo phase. I struggled a lot back then, kids can be mean. But, writing my feelings down on paper, always helped. Sometimes (and it does still feel like this a lot of the time) it really felt like I would burst at the seams if I didn't write them down. It's like that song, 3am by Anna Nalick where she sings: "If I get it all down paper, it's no longer inside of me, threatening the life it belongs to".

Past Poets - Future Voices, Page 168, Edited by Allison Jones, Young Writers, 2010.

Behind the Masquerade: A collection of Poetry, Page 130, Edited by Helen David, Young Writers, 2012.

I remember when I was sixteen, I wrote a poem called 'On The Edge'. I wrote this when I was in a very dark place with my depression. So dark, it became pretty scary there for a while. This poem was raw, real, and a cry for help. Luckily, my mum and dad read it, and then so did my doctor, and while I won't say things were ok, they did get a little better. I actually ended up turning this poem into a play of the same name about a young boys journey in prison, put away for a crime he didn't commit (and yes, to my friends and family who have asked this since I wrote it, I do plan on converting it to a novel one day, a three book series to be exact).

I really do believe, that for me, writing has saved me on countless occasions; my novel more so than the rest.

A few months after I wrote 'On The Edge', something truly unexpected and tragic happened. Out of nowhere, my dad, who was never sick, ever, suddenly came home completely swollen. Head to toe. Test, after test later, my dad was diagnosed with a rare kidney condition called Nephrotic Syndrome. He became extremely ill and was emitted into hospital hanging on by a thread. They wanted to give my dad (what was at the time) an experimental drug to try and save him. He was weak, so they needed to administer steroids. Something went...very wrong. He had a massive brain bleed to his right temple lobe. We were told to prepare for him to pass away. When the specialists from London came to the hospital they couldn’t believe that my dad was sitting up and talking (although not much of it made sense), they called him a miracle. Sadly a few months after this, my dad had a stroke. He lost movement in his right side, which he managed to gain back quickly (another miracle). He then had a second stroke, but also managed to survive and gain back his mobility. It took a long time for him to stabilise, and when he did he was a slightly different person. The tissue damage to his brain caused Vascular Dementia. So since that day in 2014, I've watched my dad slowly disappear, every day.

Myself and my mum cared for him at home until 2023. It was at this point the dementia had progressed to a point where we could no longer provide him with the kind of care he needed, so he moved into a care home that year. I was a mess. I missed him, I still do. I felt guilty, I felt like I was grieving. I was walking around with a hole in my heart, feeling pretty hopeless about life. After my dad had been in the home for around six months and started to become really happy there, I realised he would want me to keep going and try to be happy too. My dad loved my writing. My love for storytelling. It was something he truly supported me in, he never thought of my dreams as dreams, he thought of them as what my future holds. He gave me my love for writing, storytelling. When I was little, my dad would always tuck me in at night, but he never read me a story, instead, he would always tell me the stories of Freddie the French Teddy (starring my own bear) and his friends, which he made up each night.

I sat down one night (crying, if I'm being completely honest) just remembering this, and all of a sudden it came to me. The whole book. It was just there, in my mind. I immediately ran-sacked all my notebooks where I wrote random scenes, and bits of dialogue between characters that would just appear in my head, and it was all right there. I decided to use this process to help me work through things, and gosh did it.

The main character of my novel is based on me and my background, (unfortunately, lol) everything else is fictional. But, writing this book, reflecting on my own mental health, my disabilities, the way I look at life, was a game changer. My heart will never be fully whole again, but writing this book allowed me to glue some of the pieces back together. I feel hopeful again, for the first time in a very, very long time.

Writing, once again, saved my life. It brought me back to life.