Why We Write--Dounia's Story
Iāve sat here for nearly an hour, deliberating the best way to communicate just what writing is for me; how it enriches and fills an eternal void in both my mind and soul that no person, nor place or thing possibly could.
Each and every word acts as an inhalationāevery comma a sigh, and each period, an exhalation. Everything you need to understand about my humanity lies in between the lines. The awkward pauses, the empty space, and crisp breaks, all of which are as much a part of my writing as are the words bold in print, but frail in thought and character.
I believe I write to serve a purpose on this Earth. I wrote to save my own life and now I write to save others. Maybe Iām vain and egotistical to believe I can change the world with a poem, or a book. Weāre all diseased in one way or anotherāwhat I mean by that is that there is something that eats at all of us. Perhaps itās evidently present, or perhaps itās something only we as individuals can see or feel ourselves.
When it was decided I was indeed a so-called āvictimā of what most people recognize as depression, I was only 12 years old. I was sheltered, and very well aware that I wasnāt able to live life the way that my peers did. This was somewhat due to cultural differences, and entirely due to my upbringing in a Muslim, Arab-American family. From the day I was born, I was not to be like āthe other girls.ā
Naturally, I became more depressed and I fell in love with the back-left corner in my room. Beyond that, I fell in love with blue ink and composition notebooks that I hid under piles of clothes in my bedroom. God forbid anyone see those pages.
While weāre talking about depression, let me make one thing clear: Depression is not an emotion. Depression is not a stage, nor a single cause-effect. Depression is a lifelong battle. But the common misconception is that it is beyond human understanding, unless you have it. That is wrong. I can make you feel my emptiness by feeding you the words that fill me.
I can cut you across the wrist by communicating how I cut mine. I can force my finger down your throat by explicating how the hatred for oneās body and physique can drive them so madly insane that they wish not to exist at all. I can give you a bottle of pills to stare at for hours contemplating life versus death, or I can put a gun to your head for similar reasons. I can make you hate yourself. But only for a moment, and only if you read what I write with care and caution. Writing is the act of seeking truth, and perhaps my truth lies in darkness. But at least Iāll always have a penāmy flashlight.













