.words.

My breathing came in short spurts. I could see the finish line and I was not about ready to slow down. Two and a half miles later and I was almost there! Come on, Sarah. Just a few more steps! I had just crossed the finish line at the state cross country meet my eighth grade year. I had managed to place 47^th out of 120. I was feeling proud, minus the epic barfing sensation that was in my stomach. I was squirming as they herded us all through the gates like cattle. My excitement was cursing through my veins to see my family, especially my mother. I was certain that this would be the time that she would proclaim she was proud of me in front of everyone. Unfortunately, I did not know what was to come and if I did I would never have set myself up for disappointment.

The slow-moving line definitely was teaching me patience, but as I busted out and found my family I was really only looking for one person. Our eyes met. We both maintained eye contact as congratulations were being passed out by close and distance family members. For some reason I did not care what anyone had to say but her.

Her lips started to move, my stomach dropped as she said, “Well at least we know what you need to work on for next year.”

She laughed and hit my shoulder…

I was once told that actions speak louder than words. In my younger years, I may have believed this to be true. Fists got the point across. Not speaking to someone for hours on end has proven itself to be a very valid point-maker, however, now that I know the meaning to twenty-five percent of the words in the English language, my beliefs have changed their direction.

My whole life, I have been walking a path that I assumed my mother would love for me to be on and, if you knew my mother -hard-ass, stone-cold, heartless- you would understand the perfect terminology to refer to her by. Basically she is never pleased. No matter how hard you try, how deep you dig, it is still not good enough. I spent the vast majority of my time trying to make an impressed expression appear on her face; unfortunately, all my attempts were failures. It was not until I realized that I would never reach the heights my mother desired, that not only do words hurt when spoken, they also destroy in silence.

I sat through years of yelling and screaming, disappointment and frustration, before I realized that words truly mean everything. My mother’s bitter words stung like a bitch, bit like a snake, and ate away at my main sources of functioning, being my heart and brain. However, as they were eating my insides raw, I finally learned how to use them to my advantage. No, I did not use them on any one to make myself feel better; I simply let them flow out of me and on to that thin slice of wood. You could say that when I realized I could express anything and everything I wanted too without any criticism, it was a blessing in my life, a savior of some kind.

My realization about words came around the time of my freshman year. Fifteen years of growing up to strive to be the perfect child your mother wanted, or perhaps needed, definitely was taking it’s toll on me. However, all I would have to do is write, sing, or do whatever I could that involves words and I would be okay. My freshman and sophomore years, I started playing with words that others wrote, simply because I was not quite smart enough to think of any on my own. I was new to this whole “colorful words” concept. So naturally, I was a lyrical maniac. I quoted lyrics all the time. I sang all the time. I even created my own songs. I gave myself fully to my savior. I do not believe I would have made it if we would not have found each other and it was in each other that we both grew.

As my writing developed, my relationship with my mother started becoming more distant. I became an upper classman in high school and my whole mind set changed. I did not have to spend my life pleasing her. I needed to be me. When I was going into my junior year of high school, I finally realized that. My words became unstoppable.

My writing style went from ‘clearly a freshman’ to ‘insanely sick’ and if you do not know the lingo, my writing became good. Markings on my paper leaned less towards criticism and more towards the A+ every child loves to see. Words became my best friend. Of course, no one but my teachers would be aware of this because I do not tend to use them as efficiently in casual conversation as I should. However, writing brought my mind to unthinkable levels that even surprised me. All my emotions I would love to share are written in various ways on various sheets in various notebooks. I love to write. I have loved it since my junior year and I am passionate about it.

I think it is safe to assume that my infatuation with writing will never lessen. Through all of my childhood I blindly believed that words had no impact on a person until the day reality came and sucker-punched me in the stomach. Looking into my mother’s eyes and seeing silent letters scroll across her pupils brought me to believe that words are everything. Words, in their conniving ways, have always been there just waiting to be used for the good or the worse. It is these inanimate objects that saved me from the fires of Hell. They are my sunshine on a rainy day. I am fairly certain I will be escorting words down the path of rough terrain that they call life until I keel over and stop breathing. Writing and just words themselves have helped me get through some sticky situations throughout my life and I do not intend to stop using the words that supposedly cannot hurt.