My Weapon of Choice

It was at the tender age of 7 I first heard the phrase "The pen is mightier than the sword", penned in 1839 by novelist and playwright Edward Bulwer-Lytton. Through elaborate examples and well thought out analogies, this metonymic adage was explained to me. However, it was not one that I could relate to at all. I was aware of the power the pen held when wielded in the hands of the great authors, poets and leaders of our world but I didn't think it would have much of an impact in mine. That was until my pen saved my life. Growing up, I had never (although advised by many) been one to keep a diary. Don't get me wrong, I tired. However, committing myself to such an important moment at the end of each day became a tedious task. This feeling only increased on days I didn't write, which left my book of recollections and reflections feeling incomplete. After reading the diary of Anne Frank in grade eight, the standard set by this particular thirteen-year-old girl and the basic mediocrity of whatever I had to write just didn't cut it. Now that I look back, I was very silly and I wish I had taken the advice. It may have prevented the consequence that would erupt in a girl that felt too much and had nowhere to purge or understand any of these feelings. I therefore resorted to storing my feelings in some pit inside myself (especially because I was never the ‘talk about my feelings' type). And the so called ‘bottling-it-up' method came with some toxic ramifications. However, during 2020, something changed. While the world around me was silenced and stilled, I ventured into that scary place inside myself, pen in hand. And so I began. I examined the terrain as I walked through the ruins. I picked up the shattered glass, lit up the darkness I painted stars in the sky. I felt the grief and panic and acknowledged the fear and pain and filled the cold with hope. I calmed the waves, plated my dreams and prayed for rain. I filled this pit with love and handled it with grace. I did it slowly, word by word, page by page. I wrote until I ran out of things to say and then wrote about that. In that way, I figured me out and maneuvered through the storm in my brain. I restored my light through syllables and vowels on an off-white page, or sometimes through the keys of my laptop. Quickly, it wasn't insignificant but instead the channel through which my thoughts and feelings escaped, and that's important. My ‘pen' did not move mountains or nations, nor did it completely vanquish my enemies. It did however remedy a lot of poisoned parts inside me. The feelings that plagued my spirit and continuously broke and overwhelmed me had a way out. My pen was a weapon of great healing confrontation and understanding which resulted in acceptance and forgiveness. My pen helped, helps and will continue to help me fight my pain in my pursuit of peace and will therefore always be my weapon of choice.

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