Don't let your past define your future;

the wisdom of 17 year-old Renee.

I never set out to be a writer.

I actually hated English class! I thought literature and grammar were dumb. I did the bare minimum to pass, that is, when I wasn’t wagging - yes, I’m a rebel from way back then - and, anything I bothered to hand in was sloppy, immature and always looking for a fight. I would rarely get better than a ‘C’ grade.

There were only two occasions in which I ‘had a go’. And if I’m being completely transparent, I wasn’t even having a go, something just fell out of me.

They were both creative writing pieces, but I didn’t follow the rules (17 year old me following the rules - HA, fat chance of that happening!). What I did do though, was unintentionally access the deepest part of my heart and soul.

They were the only two submissions that ever received any kind of genuine feedback from my teachers, albeit with a low grade, on account of not following the rules.

*cue eye roll.

The first piece I barely remember.

It was for a SAC (Jesus, I don’t even know what that stands for. An assignment of some kind, I assume?) and although it was well under the word count, it must of been a half decent, because I didn’t fail.

I wrote about my future and how I would help other women get through their trauma.

I didn’t actually use the word trauma. I don’t even think I knew the word, or the fact that I had experienced it, in spades. I was simply grasping at straws during a time in my life when all I knew was pain and suffering. It was a ‘ha, yeah right, that would be nice, maybe in another life’ kind of hope.

The second piece… well;

I don’t even know where to begin with the second piece.

I kept it, all these years. It wasn’t something I had the courage to throw away. I’ve read it once or twice in the 21 years I’ve held onto it, and I have much in the way of emotion when it comes to this piece.

*trigger warning - self harm*

Smooth, perfect and pure.

The skin of her neck so cold, so silent, so still. Could she possibly know the strength her beauty possessed? Maybe not outside, but the things within were wonderful, enchanting, captivating.

With every breath in my body, with every beat of my heart, I watched her.

So much potential, so much life, so why all this anger and why all this hate? How can it be the ones you love, the ones that love you, are the ones that hurt you most - hurt you so deep, beyond all recovery? With no explanation, no clues as to why, just actions and behaviour so explicable you’ve lost all meaning. With no values and no morals, it seems to be lies portraying what’s left. Believing in nothing, caring for no one, how do you escape the never-ending cycle?

Who has the answers? Who wrote the questions? Why reduce ourselves to this? This measure of nothingness we call life.

Watching seems so much easier than doing. So, that’s what I did. 

Continuing to watch, I could see it all so clearly. The blade looked so sharp, the steel so cold, the blood so red. No blood on her, so whose could it be? My eyes searching, I found what I had feared… everyone she ever cared for, lay motionless at her feet, covered in thick, dark red blood - their own blood.

Who knew she was capable of such a horrifying deed?

She would say they deserved it. They had hated her, hurt her, and no one did shit about it.

Not even me. We had all failed her and now she was failing herself, failing to survive, failing to end the frustrations and fury overruling her mind. 

Raising the knife, slowly but surely, I see anger and pain reflected in her eyes.

I desperately want to save her. I try to reach for her, stopped by some unknown force.

My world goes black, and I hear nothing, I feel nothing. I’m in a world of emptiness. Until my eyes flicker open, reluctantly stepping back into reality, staring at myself in the mirror. Confused, I look down and it’s there. The knife is in my hand. 

I can feel it all again, the wretched hate, the writhed thoughts come rushing back to me. How could I do it, how could I just sit back and watch myself do this?

So many feelings, everything flying through my brain. What do I do? What can I do?

There is only one thing left to do. Stop it. Stop her.

Bringing the knife closer to my face, I see the blood dripping before me. It’s all too much, and in one quick, swift movement I make the deepest slit across my throat and blood begins gushing out. With my trembling hand I smear the blood over my body, covering myself in the shame I’ve had to live with.

Falling to the floor I land with those I love. I blame them, I blame myself, I blame everything and everyone around me.

Resting amongst my lies, lusts and life, I feel faint, my body feels empty. Struggling for breath I decide to give, something I should have done ages ago.

With my final gasps of life I close my eyes and retreat into my own world of lonely darkness… where I belong.

The depth of my cries for help still cling to these words.

To think that I wrote that, at 17 years old, makes me both incredibly sad and impossibly proud.

(Also, the fact that not a single teacher came and spoke to me about this, or shared it with my parents, speaks volumes as to how neglected I was in my trauma.)

The words, the phrasing, the analogy, the way in which I painted such a clear picture of my inner world seems wise beyond the 17 years I’d lived. Everyday Renee did not speak like that. She was rash, loud, in your face. Immature and borderline hysterical most days. She didn’t have any knowledge or understanding of psychology, emotion or self-reflection. And yet, here, in this one moment, she captured the truest essence of self that some won’t even get close to touching their entire lives.

What an incredible ability.

I read this now and know my courage and vulnerability with Hope: A Journey of Self-Love (another piece of writing that just fell out of me) was nothing compared to the scared, angry, helpless teenager who wrote this.

She was the brave one.

She was the one who found a way to keep living, when she really, really, didn’t want to. And she did it all alone.

Admiration would be an understatement for how I feel about her.

She carved the path for me.

I may not have set out to become a writer - I’m not sure I’d even call myself one - but it seems writing is something that just happens to me.

And when it happens, it grants me access to a place that isn’t shareable any other way. It allows me to paint a picture, or tell a story, that might otherwise be left untold.

And I believe I’d like to share more of those stories, creatively.

*I can practically hear my English teachers’ sarcasm from here “oh sure, now she’ll write creatively”, HA*

So, here’s to me granting you access to what lives inside of me, one short story at a time.

I hope to see you there.

With love,

Renee xx

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