Prompt:How did you become a writer?

It only took until fourth grade for me to decide that my body didn't fit into the category of beautiful. In grade school, the girls would change into their gym clothes before attending gym class. Our uniform was a pair of bloody red cotton shorts or a grey-ish pair of polyester ones, and to top it off, we wore the same gym shirt that anyone else had on. 

The bloody red shorts were the only shorts that looked good on me, but I didn't figure that out until sixth grade. Until then, I couldn't understand why my uniform, both for school and for gym class, fit on me unlike the rest of the bodies in my class. I had to hike the shorts up enough to cover my beer belly. I had to have a big enough t-shirt so that any rolls weren't accounted for at first glance. 

Somewhere around that Christmas in fourth grade I received a hardcover journal from my aunt. One day, my sister my mother and I returned from somewhere and my sister had tried on a nice jean skirt and a top. Home with her new purchases, I stared at my sister and wondered how we had the same genes. How effortless it was for her to put on these new clothes and have them automatically adjust to her body. She was three years older than me, but this didn't instill any hope, I never thought I could attain what most girls had. 

A sadness came over me and I ran up the stairs into my closet. My closet was shaped like a isocleles right triangle. In the far right corner was a niche where I would often have the award-winning spot for hide and seek, but, on this particular night, it was the perfect niche to curl up in a ball and cry my eyes out. I grabbed the journal I had received for Christmas and I just started writing and writing. 

I haven't been able to stop since and I'll tell you that not only is it because it helps me gain a clear perspective on my life, but it also functions as the most important part of my existence. There is a feeling I get when I write. It doesn't matter what I write about, but a feeling comes over me. Something that I would describe as healthy anger. I reread any piece of writing I have written and have moments of despair because I feel as I will never be able to describe exactly how I feel in my writing. That is why I keep writing. That is why I keep going, for, if that moment does indeed not exist where I feel as if I have put a feeling into the most perfect sequence of words, then I promise to live my entire life striving to get somewhere close to it.