I was a troubled teenager -guess every teenager is-. I was beaten up, pushed around and ridiculed by my family. I was never good enough. My hobbies were wrong. My personality was wrong. My way of thinking was wrong. Everything about me was wrong and they believed they had to fix it -their way!-. We had no internet at the time. I could only see my friends at school. So my only way in order not to go insane was to write in my diary. I would write everything that happened with me that day and how I felt about it. But I never showed it to anyone because the last time I wrote a story and showed it to my family -I was in grade 5 I think- my whole family called me an impostor who stole her older sister’s idea. From that point on I would think a hundred times before writing but I would write again. When I fell into my football addiction at 14, I had to express my love and admiration for my football stars. Following male stars was blasphemous for my family so again I had to write about them in secret. I wrote ‘poems’; some rhymed lines I was so proud of. Writing those childish poems was my only solace. Editing and copying them over and over kept me alive. I felt I was good at something. I was doing well in something my family told me I would never be good at. I, the good for nothing, was good at something. So I kept writing those poems to stay alive. Up until I was about to start my last year in high school.
I had no clue as to what I wanted to be in life. I was a scarred suicidal girl. Everything I ever got interested in my family made sure to snatch it away from me or make it impossible for me to even approach. I believed I was talentless, ugly, unlucky and despised. I was 17 and I was already sick of my life. Then one day; the 27th of June 2007, a spark flashed in my mind. Hey! Let’s write our life plan. I had to do something before the decisive year started. In my country, the last year of high school defines college opportunities. So no matter what my marks were before, I could get into the best college and my chosen major if I got a high average. I sat down, held my notebook and wrote everything I liked and everything I was good at. Everything I was good at was one thing; writing. And I knew by then that the highest point a writer can reach in this world was Nobel Prize. So on top of the page I inscribed; Nobel Prize for Literature.
Through that summer before my high school graduation year I wrote three novellas in such a simple language. The stories were full of Utopian ideas, everlasting love, martyrdom, sisterhood, patriotism, etc. All the ideas I read about in Russian novels and Shakespeare; all the ideas that I knew did not exist but wished they did. After I wrote my first story, I got the courage to present it to the world. I edited it, typed it and printed it out using my own little allowance. And then I gave to anyone who would care to read. When people’s reactions were encouraging, I summoned all the courage my smashed soul had left and read it out loud to my parents. I did, personally. When I saw the amazement in their eyes, I knew I was not utterly helpless. That moment, writing became my life and nothing could stop me.
So with Nobel Prize in mind, I started my last year. I made up for all the years of fooling around. I topped my school and won a scholarship in the best college. I wanted to study Spanish but father was dead against it so I entered the English department. There, I was exposed to a total different world. I had so many options to read. And what I wrote was read by a different audience; by professors and established writers. In college, I was told that I had my special writing style and that I was talented. I was told that I should continue writing. I failed writing contents, yes. But that never stopped me. I started reading more. My dictionary expanded and my style improved. I could write more genres. I could write whatever I settled my mind on, because I believed in my writing.
I graduated college with a very good average but my writing dream froze there. With no real writing opportunities and my dad’s objections to any related job, I had to start teaching. I faced the great gap between the literary world that embraced me and teaching. It was hard but I wrote on and on.
After a year and a half of teaching kids I won a full scholarship to South Korea. Of course the family objected so I decided to run away and chase my dreams. I was caught and therefore got confined in my room for a whole year. My laptop and phone were taken away. My room’s blinds were nailed to the wall so I would not be able to see the outer world. I was not to contact any living being whatsoever. But I had my books, my notebooks and my pens. In my room’s confinement I finished the novel I was stuck with for a whole year, and I wrote another. I wrote short stories and poems. And I survived.
After two years, presently, and though I do not write much about literature but more of drama and film reviews, I have a huge audience. One of my articles exceeded 8000 views which is much for a newbie with no name. I survived 7 suicidal attempts; the last was called miraculous by the doctors. There was one reason why I survived and I always will; writing.