on stories

I was convinced for a long time that the value of a person was determined by the value of their story. The more sensational, the better they were at being a person. I craved a more interesting life. If life was a canvas, mine was blank white.

Essentially, I had no voice. No power.

Then I entered college and majored in English, with a focus in Creative Writing. My discipline of choice required me to find something of a voice. A little bit of me managed to emerge, and poetry turned out to be my favorite class.

In the last semester of my senior year, I enrolled in a fiction workshop–my favorite genre. I started spinning my story chapter by chapter, and every class confirmed my creative efforts.

Until my mind collapsed and I woke up in the suicide ward of the hospital, even though I wasn’t suicidal. Nobody there was going through the same problem as me.

After my release ten L-O-N-G days later, I was un-enrolled from the class due to my need to focus on only graduation requirements for the remainder of the semester. And so my storytelling has been very hit and miss ever since, with a few half-hearted attempts every six months or so.

Just today I was reminded that I had a voice. Hence the release of this particular post. I’ve actually been trying to write this thing for weeks. But this afternoon I saw a psychologist for the first time. (For those of you who are bipolar, I recommend having both a psychiatrist to dispense your meds and a psychologist to listen to your story. The two create a healthy balance.)

The psychologist reminded me of what I have known all along.


This is the beginning of the story of June Skye, as narrated by herself and nobody else. Here is where I draw the line for all the old voices in my head telling me that I can’t

I’m done with their limitations, with their rules. My own voice has emerged through all the chatter, and she says to the limits and lines, “GO SCRIBBLE SOMEWHERE ELSE.”

–June Skye–


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