About

Scarlet’s Story

As a kid I used to cut out pictures from random magazines my mother had piling up and paste them into composition notebooks. Bright stickers, crayon drawings, colorful pencil scratches, and markers bleeding onto the sheets; I decorated their pages to my heart’s content with anything I found interesting and carried it with pride. I showed them only to close friends. I forgot to take my favorite notebook out of my desk at school during a break, and I was devastated when I couldn’t find it anywhere.

Negativity from home and school spurred on fiery rage and the ever-increasing desire to get away from everyone. I wore anxiety like a second skin.

As a teen I poured out my soul in online journals. Each day I would boot up a mind-boggling slow Windows 95 computer, ignore the incessant complaining on how I was tying up the phone lines, and chronicle EVERY SINGLE THING. Each precise detail, or piece of dialogue I could recall, conveying raw emotions through my observations. I was taken in by a clique of metal heads and goths I would cut class with from time to time, yet I trusted no one. I only spoke if I genuinely had something to say. Journaling became my real voice.

Around my senior year, I experimented with all of the wrong things, fell for the worse lies, and veered over the edge of madness and despair. I battled through teeth and claws sinking into my flesh, re-opening wounds and provoking paralyzing fears, ensuring I could never be truly whole.

My written words carried me through, until crippling depression destroyed my muse. I could no longer write, nor did I have the desire to look back at my misgivings. I found solace in pretty little pills and blissful intoxication.

These invisible monsters lie buried in my subconscious but never forgotten.

And now I call out to my muse, as a worried parent looking out for their child before darkness falls and all the boogeymen manifest. I fear I’ve turned my back for too long. I read through the poetry and the stories I created and I feel the underlying sorrow creating beauty out of chaos.

There is lingering self-doubt. But.. as with all difficult things, I must conquer.

I am a writer and this is my journey.