I started journaling again. Just like the 9-year-old me.
And 10, and 11, and 12, and 13. By the time she turned 14, she was writing 20 pages per day.
I am not even joking. That was how much I wrote. In fact, writing was probably the only solace in my life back then. There wasn’t much to look forward to, really. I remember spewing the entire insides of me–still raw, bloody and undigested–onto lined papers was the utmost priority. Over homework. Over TV. Over friends. If I actually had any. read more