About The Wanglings

My fingers pushed the pen to the thin, yellow lined paper as I scrawled as neatly as my seven year old self could.

My little body suddenly felt free of the emotions I had been harbouring, as if with every pen stroke they were released down through my finger tips and out onto the fibres of the paper. 

Releasing my emotions through my fingers this way was liberating in a way I couldn't imagine.

Not old enough to enunciate my thoughts perfectly, the process of writing made it easier to develop my ideas, to roll them around in my little head until they were ready for release.

I finished my scrawl, not even bothering to glance at it again. I was free from the intensity of my worry at last, I was sure I would get answers. My problems would be solved. She might not listen, but she would read.

Somehow at seven I knew that the words, on this now crumpled piece of scrap paper, could hold more power than the tiny shy voice that came from my throat.

I hastily stuffed the paper somewhere she would see it. I can't remember where. I think it was on her chair at the front of the class room.

Then I went out to play.



 wangling  present participle of wan·gle

Obtain (something that is desired) by persuading others to comply or by manipulating events.

As a child I was often perceived as extroverted but, as often is the case, the facade was a barrier to keep people from seeing how intensely shy and introverted I was.

After transitioning (poorly) into high school I distanced myself from everyone and everything after the death of my Dad at 13.

The only release I found as an intensely secretive and introverted teenager, was to write.

And write I did.

From start to finish, this is the story of how I wangle life.

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