Writing is my life raft–
one I have embraced diligently.
It kept me from sinking.
It’s not just a hobby.
It’s my survival.
Identity.
Shelter.
I found it like stumbling onto something
that was already waiting for me.
It became my thing–
something that belonged to me
when not much else did.
It was where I learned
to breathe effortlessly.
It holds me.
Living with an undisclosed disability for decades
meant living my whole life as a lie
and on “hard mode”
without knowing why.
Not knowing messes with your head
in quiet, deep ways.
Having to try hard.
Harder than everyone else.
Seen as lazy.
Too sensitive.
Not trying hard enough.
You start wondering
if it's really you.
On the page,
I don’t have to perform
to be “normal.”
I can just be me.
I can go at my own pace.
I can make sense of things
that don’t make sense.
I can be competent.
Clear.
Even when others
make me feel otherwise.
It’s the one place
I don’t feel broken.
I’m not broken.
I see things at 360%.
I’m not the broken one.
I survived something invisible.
And I built myself a tool
to do it.
I survived something invisible.
And I built myself a tool
to do it.
