After hearing some of my story, a woman said to me, “Do you think writing saved you?”
I was looking out the window at the blue sky, avoiding her overstuffed office. Books, photos, and nic-nacs lined the dark wood shelves behind her and a lamp sat, too bright and hot, to one side. She was tall and thin, model like in her own way, and she looked at me earnestly, waiting for a response.
When I turned to her, she answered the question for me. “I think writing saved you.”
Ah, there it was.
Writing did help me toggle to the clearer side of sanity. Believing in something larger than my tiny distressed corner of the world helped me get through some very dark times. The ever present feeling that I had something to add to the world secured me from suicidal tendencies.
Some time ago, I thought to write…
View original post 336 more words