A couple years ago, right around my birthday, I began to write. My life had begun unraveling yet again and I clung to my words as someone drowning might cling to debris floating downstream, hoping something, anything, might keep me afloat and stop me from going under.
It began with a book about my own experiences. Sink or swim, live or die, I didn’t want the truth of my story going down with me. But a miraculous thing happened as I threw my words out into the wind – I was finally heard. For the first time in my life, I was heard. Even more miraculously, words floated back to me, telling me that others understood, others had been there, that I was not alone.
And it saved my life.
Knowing that I wasn’t broken, wasn’t crazy, wasn’t alone in all the world gave me renewed strength to fight, to keep going, to not give up. In that moment I was forever changed.
I suppose some could have dusted themselves off, walked away, and continued on with their lives, grateful for another chance at life. But I couldn’t. I had a lifetime of silence to make amends for, over forty years of pain to release. Once I got to the shore, I added my voice to the collective.
For years, I had drifted along seemingly alone, being pulled under, almost drowning, again and again. Those voices that reached out to me from the shore, other survivors who encouraged me to just keep swimming, showed me I was never as alone as I had believed. If there were others on the shore, there had to be others in the water, as well. Others who needed to know they were not alone, either. Others who needed encouragement and empathy to keep fighting and not give up.
I had this overwhelming urgency to pay it forward.
I began writing more often, sharing the gritty truth of what it was like to live with mental illness. I also began speaking out more and more about fighting stigma and discrimination. I was like Ebenezer Scrooge, awoken on Christmas morning to see the world in a whole new light. It was not too late for me. My story wasn’t over. I could still make a difference in the world.
How have I endured in regards to my newfound passion?
Though personally, I’d consider my venture into writing over the past two years a huge success, I know many would consider it middling at best. I have a handful of books about mental illness and mental health published and others in the works. I have an active blog, averaging 2-4 new pieces a month. Many of my blogs have been republished elsewhere, most notably The Mighty who has republished well over 35 to date with others sitting in a queue, earmarked and waiting to go live. I have been on my local NBC news station for an interview about my book. My pieces have been discussed by television and radio stations as far away as Australia and have been shared by advocacy groups, private practices, schools and government agencies in one hundred different countries around the world – that I know of, at least, according to the stats page on my personal blog. I have a milestones page filled with events in my short writing career I would have never dreamed possible a few years ago.
The majority of the people who have read my writing have read blogs that have been published and republished for free. I do sell a book or two here and there, as well as an occasional anxiety chart poster, but it is nowhere near enough to make a living from or to pay any of my bills. As much as I would love to make a living at this, doing what I have come to love, I am not sure whether it will ever be in the cards for me. Why, then, do I keep writing?
I write to make a difference. My voice might not travel far – mental illness is a very niche topic that is unlikely to ever truly go viral – but I have seen firsthand that my writing is reaching others. I see it in the messages sent to my inbox, thanking me for putting their own struggles into words. I see it whenever someone else tags someone they know on one of my pieces, trying to help them better understand. I see it every time any group, organization or agency who works with the mentally ill shares my writing.
Admittedly, even two years later, it all still feels surreal and makes my eyes water. I still feel honored and humbled every time anyone reads my words and relates, reads my words and shares them with others. I truly feel blessed. It has in many ways become my calling.
But still, in a day and age ruled by the almighty dollar, why continue devoting so much time and energy to something that can’t even pay the bills?
The answer is simple – I write because I know I can make a difference.
I don’t ever imagine I will be world famous and renowned. I am honestly beyond amazed that my writing has reached as many people as it has. I know I won’t be able to save everyone, to make a difference in everyone’s life, but I am making a difference in some people’s and that is enough for me.
I am reminded of a bittersweet story about a young child walking along the ocean shore after a big storm. It comes from a book called The Star Thrower by Loren C. Eiseley. This young child walked along the beach, one by one throwing starfish that had washed ashore back into the ocean. After some time, an old man approached the young girl, asking her why she was wasting her time, telling her there was no way she could ever save all the starfish that had been washed ashore. At first, the young girl was discouraged but that feeling only lasted a moment. Then she picked up another starfish at her feet, returned it to the ocean and proudly proclaimed that at least she made a difference to that one.
I relate so very strongly to that little girl. I cannot save everyone. I know that. But I am determined to keep writing, keep making a difference, continue to help others as much as I can. Even if my words only touch one life here or there, I have made a difference in the world. I have left an impact and made the world a better place than it was before. And that is enough for me.