Not So Princess Like

Amid my troubled youth, probably around sixth grade. I found myself stuck behind the pages of a book. The love I had to escape my dark reality, it helped me become the person I am today. I started reading to run away from my home and school life, diving into worlds of nerdy princesses and teenage sleuths. I loved anything by James Howe or Meg Cabot. They were my first experiences with enjoying literature. At first it was hard for me to read, I found myself not understanding what I was reading because I could not pronounce the words. So, I took it upon myself to check out the audiobooks from the library and follow along with the voice in my headphones. I quickly learned to read faster, jumping from book to book to stay in the worlds created by my favorite authors.

My mother always used to say, “What book are you reading now missy” and I would tell her and brag about the characters, how I wanted to be like them. She’d smile and be grateful for such a mindful daughter. I never meant to hurt my mother, but in some way it was inevitable. Teenagers are rude, childish and tyrants. When high school approached, and the dread consumed me, how was I to hide behind pages in a book now? I can’t sit here and pretend my life was terrible, my mother was a single hard-working parent, who had little time for me in my youth, but I would never take that from her. She always fed my hunger for reading and soon I’d find my passion for writing. I spent time with friends, drifting slowly from reading, little by little. I started a daily journal, where I’d vent and lash out my angered feelings of resentment and abandonment. How I felt about my father not being around and how I felt abandoned by him. I’d constantly ask myself, “is it me”, “did he not love me enough”, questions that still go unanswered, but that gave me the drive to be the first person in my family to graduate college. The first person in my family to pick up writing. When I wrote my first poem, I critiqued it until it was nothing but a single stanza, tossing it in the trash where I thought it belonged. For years, I was so hard on myself with my writing, I found it to be work instead of enjoyment. I found that my writing could’ve been published in my teenage years, but my fear of rejection got the best of me. I let my own thoughts, harbor my very real response. My senior year, I took a poetry class and was excited and driven to create amazing poems. I remember a conversation with the teacher so vividly.

“I think this needs to be revised, your punctuation and grammar are really off.” He said, handing me back my crumpled sheet of paper. I sighed, feeling the rejection ping at my heart.

“Yeah, I did not take much time to go over the details. It was really a rough draft.” I say, emphasizing ‘rough’. I tucked the piece of crap poem into my backpack. He smiled softly at me, running a hand through his short black hair. He adjusted his glasses, his eyes reassuring me.

“Well, it was a great poem otherwise. I loved the romantic concept. The pain the person felt when they no longer were able to see the person they loved. It was very vivid. I think you should fix the issues and let the literary magazine publish it.” He said, pushing the bridge of his glasses up his nose. My insides jumped and turned in excitement, yet the pang of nervousness caused me to say before thinking.

“I am sorry, Mr. Lawrence, I can’t do that.” I say with instant regret. He frowned, nodding in acceptance.

I’ll forever be mad at myself for not giving myself a chance, but forgiveness was necessary. Now I have a self-published book and a blog. I may not have been able to publish that poem, but I was able to continue my story, in one way or another. I’ll never give up trying because my world has changed significantly because of my writing. I want to learn more about myself in my writing, because that is what self realization is, finding who you are.