I started writing when I was about 14 years old. Never knew what potential I had, just made it for fun. Over a time I started a Fanpage for Lord of the Rings and Hobbit. I wrote fanfictions there. Thought that I had found something in which I was good. Something that was the right thing for me. But then the time started, when I asked myself why I was doing all of this, why I even thought about doing all of this. The truth is, it helped me through a lot, that was the reason why I did it, I just couldn't see it back then. This is where J.D. came into the story (I was about 15 or 16 then). Below a new chapter I found a comment, just when I came home one day. It was a hard day and the only thing I wanted was to stop writing and to stop to be who I wanted to be. I got depressed but that comment, it helped me, it saved me in some points. I'm a very curious person. I was, I am and I will always be. That's the reason why I looked who the writer of the comment was (The comment was something about: Keep on writing, that's good stuff etc.). So I found out that J.D. is a writer. My first thought was just how honored I was. An author and a fan of J.R.R. Tolkien who wrote something like that. It ment the world to me and it made me realize that I wasn't as bad at writing as I always thought. It gave me hope and it encouraged me to keep on with the one thing, that always saved my life just like reading did. It cleaned my soul and it made me happy.

That's one part of the story. The other one has to do a lot with depressions.

When I was 16 a harsh argument with my mother triggert a lot of things at the same time.

I knew how wrong it was and how broke I have been when I started cutting the next morning after waking up. I just needed to relieve the pain inside of me and it helped for some seconds to see the blood. But after a minute it beat me to the ground even more than before. I couldn't understand why such a thing broke me. It broke my heart to sit there on the kitchen floor and realizing that I did it just because of my mother, because of the feeling of missing love from my family, from the people I called friends.

I searched for help the same day in school. Our psychologist helped me. I didn't stop back than, even when I promised him to do so. I just couldn't. I tried it, it worked for some month but then at my new school, some so called 'friends' turned against me and I just couldn't stop myself from doing it anymore. My parents didn't realize, but they wouldn't have cared anyway. My teachers didn't realize, no one around me did. Since then I've never called someone friend again.

Times got better, I did it again one or two times but then it was over.

The depressions where still there, don't get me wrong, but I was able to stop the cutting and this was an important step for me. I got better at working things that hurt me out. Spent whole nights reading or writing, just to stop myself from cutting. Sometimes I created Dream Worlds, where everything was perfect, sometimes I created a little part of my reality in the Storys. It helped me and I heard from some readers, that it helped them too. That was always what kept me going when wanting to stop all that was happening. When I wished that my life left me and I was finally dead.

The arguments with my mother didn't stop. I still have them way to often, but yeah...

What I just realized recently is how much I have to thank books and pages I wrote by myself for. I would even say my life.

Realizing this started with another horror. I still can't remember all of it. It started with our final class trip to Vienna, just last week. Somehow I got brownies with dope in it. I ate two of them and can't remember anything of the last week for sure. My whole class trip memory is gone, except one thing. One of my class mates ate some other pills and when I woke up during the bus drive, he was nearly dead. His pupil didn't react and then he started to cramp. It was horror, the only thing you can remember, such a thing.

Losing control and memory after cutting myself in the past was the worst thing for my brain.

As if this wasn't enough, my boyfriend broke up with me because I was to much for him. I mean everything was fine before my class trip but afterwards it wasn't.

It crushed me to the ground, at least I thought so at first. But after thinking about it, it wasn't really the fact that he broke up with me or the point with losing control that pushed me to the ground. It was the moment when I realized. All I was truly hurt about was the fact, that there was no one catching me from falling. This voices in the heads of depressed people may be little demons, but if I'm truly honest with myself. In this case they where right.

They made me think and I recognized things I never had recognized before.

I must have had these depressions since I was younger. I just controlled them in a different way. I controlled them with writing them down on paper. Letting my hand speak what was going on inside of me. I dumped these depressions in books. Books I red and books I wrote.

I kept going to write after realizing that. And I got new motivation to write what my heart is telling me. Finding friends is important, but I know that I won't find them by looking. It has to be by coincident.

I don't call books my friends, I call them lifesavers, cause for me they have always been and always will be.

The day I will stop writing will be the one day when I'll take my last breath. Words in the written form are somehow life.

With this text above I want to say, many people don't really feel or know what is ment with the movement and what J.D. tries to tell us with it. It's not about understanding the words that others write, it's more about feeling them and identify yourself with them. If you do so, it's a greater thing to read one page or one story of it, because then you learn to know what others felt with what they wrote.

Storys made me realize that everyone has one and that it doesn't matter how bad or normal the story is. What truly matters is, that the person writing it had fun during it, or that it helped (especially in the worst cases) to bring feelings in the form of words which may also help other people, cause they can be sure, that they are not alone and that every person on this world is a Misfit in it's own way and it's just perfect like it is. Creating Storys to help others and to help yourself at the same time, there's nothing wrong with it and it's the greatest benefits for humanity, that we can write and read, cause this can make our worlds healthier without big efforts.