Don’t laugh too hard but I really realized that I can write in MY OWN books. Like books that I brought. At that, it wasn’t until college that I learned I can customize my sketchbook and anything that I owned. lol It feels nice not to have someone scream and shame me for not keeping certain items in the same condition I received them.

The only time I wasn’t punished for drawing on things that belonged to me were stuff that I created. It’s why it brought me joy when I built my first desk with furniture scraps and got to paint it.

Sure… I still had the habit of writing and drawing on the walls. I guess it never left because there was never any evidence that I belonged there. Kinda why when I moved in with one of my sisters and learned I had permission to paint my walls I went crazy on trying to write reminders to myself that life was worth it.

Now, even though I can’t paint on the walls, I can still buy posters to hang up. But strangely I can’t find anything that truly matches me. Maybe it’s just the creative in me wanting to put up stuff that I made. Like, the unwavering sense of not belonging still trying to surround myself with evidence that this is me. Evidence that I exist.