Silence. It amazes me how poignant it is. I’ve always recognized its power but was never able to properly use it. I’m known as loud: loud mind, loud soul, loud spirit. Always the girl shouting in the hallways, wearing a bright yellow dress in winter, speaking on stage, standing out. Yet noise and loneliness are incompatible. No one hears you when you’re alone.

When I was nine years old, I was often home alone. My mother’s job required her to live in another city, and my father was in Kenya for the same reason. I had to stay in Abidjan, one of Cote D’Ivoire’s capital cities and my home town, for school. I lived with my aunt who, although well-intentioned, was too busy working to pay attention to me. I had to find a way to scream in a soundproof world, for while my mind was still shouting, my voice couldn’t be heard. I started writing. It was a passion. In my journal, I told my story silently, invented worlds that let me shout, the powerful flow of ink pulsing along with my heart. It was as if keeping my mouth shut kept me roaring internally. Loneliness demanded that I adopt silence and learn to embrace it. As silence informed me, noise built up walls that blocked out the outside world, keeping silence and noise cohabiting within me. If everyone else is on one side of the wall, the girl on the other side stays lonely, her roars unheard, her screams silenced, her thoughts written, her passion flourishing, her soul constricted. So I abandoned myself to writing. I closed my eyes and typed because those letters on the keyboard constituted a microphone for pent up thoughts. Anxiety haunted me, transcribing my dreams was the only hope. So I dreamed, even awake, because writing permitted me to dream endlessly.
Combinations of letters were my escape, and I was determined to master my manipulation of them from the beginning. At nine, writing was an addiction, a way to escape, a pastime, an investment in my imagination. I would write so much my hand would always hurt and even blister. I wouldn't listen in class; instead, I would be coming up with alternate endings for my short stories or ideas for the new stories. I barely slept since I stayed up as late as possible to write. I had few friends at school, because I would choose to be in my own world, writing in the corner of the play room. My hobby turned into an obsession, but as time passed, school became so all-consuming I forgot I had a voice.

Years later, I left for Canada. New separation and solitude put me in a familiar vulnerable position, so my natural reaction was to find comfort in books. I would read stories about orphans because though my parents might’ve been alive, they were absent. Every second of my free time was spent reading or writing. I was no longer the ten-year-old discovering her voice, but a thirteen-year-old returning to her paper and ink safety blanket. I was, once again, in survival mode.
That’s when I realized writing preserved me. It shielded me from the claws of depression; silence and noise were oddly cohabitating in me. Today, I still find solace in silence and letters. I will always be that way.
I write. It’s what I do, it’s who I am. I might not be the first to love it or do it, but every letter my fingers tap on a keyboard is mine. Without my refuge, this voice, this passion, would have been muted, suppressed, deadened. My voice altered me from timid child to bold, unconcealed, roaring young woman. And I laugh, and smile, and glow, and wear my bright yellow dress in the ashy winter so that you know, I am here.
That’ so well written, a perfect picture of what a lot of us went through. I am proud of you becoming bold and finally sharing this with us, we see you !!