I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately. A lot of thinking and not much writing. Just sitting and stewing and waiting. I’m not sure what I’m waiting for, exactly. But, I think whatever it may be, something snapped and I decided to get back to writing something down. Even if it’s not necessarily something that may be considered entertainment.

One of the things that I’ve been coming back to recently is why I’m still compelled to go through with writing. I think that one of the reasons comes from an early desire to be seen and heard. Like with every family, things were complex. My parents were immigrants and worked hard to make sure that we were never left wanting in our finances, my brother and sister were either reaching or already in their teenage years trying to figure out themselves and how to integrate into society as a whole, and I couldn’t really communicate with my grandmother because I never learned my family’s native languages. All of this means that I spent a majority of my time in my own head - parents who had to focus a majority of their time and efforts on work related matters, older siblings who had to become accustomed to being a grown up, and a grandmother who couldn’t impart any of her life experiences because of a language barrier and would keep to herself unless it meant insuring basic survival needs were met.

The times that I did get to receive attention from anyone, I became ecstatic. So much pent up energy and happiness. But combined with my lack of social practice and a possible lack of brain development, there were many interactions that called my socialization skills into question. And my tendency to overshare got me into trouble. I wasn’t always reprimanded by being yelled at or spanked. But, and I don’t have any evidence that this may be a thing, I think that I picked up on the fact that my parents were worried about me and that worry was another burden on them than what was conveyed as necessary. And that meant more trouble for them, which could ultimately lead to more trouble for me, both in the forms of verbal and physical punishment. I’d like for it to be clear, though, physical punishment was rare and not very severe for myself - I can probably count the amount of times that occurred on my hands and I have no physical scars on myself that show that form of punishment. 

But the realization that speaking would cause more trouble made me withdrawn. I became the quiet child of the family, which synonymously meant that I was a good child, because I made little to no trouble. But, I still contained the energy and thoughts of a child, still wanting to say all the things that came to mind because it helped me understand all of the unknown things in the world. The problem with all of this was that it was now programmed in my head that speaking and exploring my thoughts meant trouble, which meant a full stop to try and deal with being in trouble. This subconscious thought process went on for probably about five years, based on my very first memory of being called stupid when I was four years old and my first creative writing assignment when I was in fourth grade.

I was nine years old. My parents had gotten us a Nintendo 64 as a gift in the previous months and with it a copy of The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time. I was enthralled by it - a princess being saved by a hero who didn’t belong, not to mention the ability to manipulate time to your advantage and slowly uncovering how fates were intertwined and the interplay of those two themes. All of it was mind bending and something that I still fixate on to this day. But what really spoke to me in Ocarina of Time was Goron City. In it, there is a quest where a giant boulder blocks the way of a dungeon Link needs to venture into. Probably not so coincidentally, I began to notice a small boulder arranged with rocks around it like a frame on a hill on my bus rides to and from school. I would stare at it, wondering if there was an entrance behind it that led to a secret tunnel inside the hill.

That’s when I wrote a story about that hill. The funny thing is that I can’t remember anything about the story, only that I wrote it and I received a more than adequate grade on the assignment which was a little unusual, considering I mostly got average grades.

But that’s when I realized that writing was more than just boring school assignments. Not only did I get to explore the ideas and thoughts that had been banging around my brain, but I got to share them with people. And I didn’t get in trouble. In fact, I was praised for all of it, rather than having to suffer the anxiety of getting into trouble. 

It was magical. It was captivating. It was the safest way that I could be seen and heard.