“A writer is born out of pain. For them, writing is an escape or a rational journey to reality.’’
No, Shakespeare or Dickens did not say that. It was a random thing that crossed my mind in the bathroom- what a great place to get ideas.
And just like you, I have a similar story. Writing helped me turn my pain into a superpower!
I got into writing — or rather say, writing found me when I started imagining situations to escape my non-existential school days.
I say non-existential because I was trying to be someone else. I was losing what I had.
School years mold you — builds confidence, instills moral values, and most importantly, makes you comfortable in your skin.
But in my case, it was the opposite. My school days lowered my self-esteem, made me feel uncomfortable in my body, and tried to be someone else.
I was fat- 45–50 kgs. . I had a double chin, a bulging stomach. I ate like a pig; and sometimes, I didn’t feel like eating. But all of it was never in my hands. When I look back, I think I was normal — science says so. You need more food in your growing years. And I was not overweight or obese- I was just fat.
But that’s what science says, not my friends. For my friends — I was fat, ugly, and not enough.
For them, I needed to be shamed, poked in the stomach, and made aware of my stomach and chin.
For them, I never deserved love, and I was never attractive.
For them, I was not worthy of anything.
No, I was not that shy girl who sat on the backbench, avoiding attention. I was the girl who had answers to every question the teacher asked — the teacher’s favorite — a nerd.
Yes, a nerd- my classmates shamed me for being intelligent. I started believing that to have friends — I needed to be like them. I needed to be one of them- missing homework and treating academics as a sidekick.
But I failed at being that cool kid. But I tried to be that kid.
I tried not to be me. I wanted to be someone else and failed.
I was shattered, broken to the core. I lost my confidence. I was tired of pushing myself to be someone I was not.
One fine day, when one of my classmates passed a remark on my double chin, I cried on her face. She said I look cute when I cry- what a bizarre statement. After my classes got over, I went straight to bed, closed my eyes. I pretended to sleep because that was my escape back then.
But, I saw a diary lying on my father’s table. It was a PR diary from a pharmaceutical company. And I knew what to do- hide it. And every night, I wrote my heart out, cried on the pages, and tore it sometimes.
That diary saw me angry, sad, and happy.
It caught me losing my last bit of self-confidence.
It saw me starving myself with fat losing ideas.
But it was all I had.
It was the friend I needed. And that’s how I got into writing.