In 9th grade, I wrote a love letter to a boy. I imagine it was entirely dramatic—depicting my teenage longing and the color of his eyes with gag-inducing metaphors—but genuinely heartfelt, and honest nonetheless. And while I tried my hardest to emulate the letter-writing greats, like Oscar Wilde and John Keats, my letter read like a scene from Degrassi with the raw emotion of a Dashboard Confessional hit.
I dragged myself to my second-floor window, and clung to the sill with white knuckles—my lungs laboring against the thick, hot air. Tears poured from my ducts like unhinged floodgates, and choking back sobs, I watched as he reluctantly backed out of his parking space, and out of my life.
Yesterday afternoon, I spent an hour digging through plastic bins full of artwork, grade reports, stories, and relics from my childhood. Aside from the warm fuzzies provoked by nostalgia, it was incredibly funny revisiting my youth from my teeny, first-person perspective.
If you’ve ever felt an ounce of sadness, or stress, or fear, write about it. Tear the cap off a pen, and spill some ink knowing with each motion of your hand, you’re one step closer to mending your wounds. Words are my most favorite tools. Strung correctly, their punch is unbelievably powerful. They bite, cut, soothe, heal. They are the Neosporin for my boo-boos.