Blogging as Self Writing: Personal is Political

          As far as I remember, I grew up being a storyteller, but mostly I told my own stories. I started telling stories to my wooden barbie, which was with me as far as I started to remember. The wooden Barbie was my best friend. I started telling my stories while being with her. I addressed her she; she was my best friend. She was an active listener. At least I imagined her being a good listener. She was everything to me: friend, character, listener, little sister. In fact, everything.

          As far as I remember, I grew up with her. I had stitched  some dresses for her. I used to wash them as frequently as my dresses. She grew up with me.  But when puberty hit me, that became a matter of problem. When I was a kid, she  never became a problem for my parents. But with puberty, she became a hot topic at a kitchen table. After getting my first period, my mom warned me not to play with her. But I was timid enough to disobey her. But one day, she threw her into the burning fire, telling me , You are already  a woman, even you are ready to bear a baby, so don’t be childlike. That was the most terrible moment of my life. I lost my friend, listener, and little sister, without any prior preparation.

          After she was burned, I remained lonely.  I remained lonely like a Marysyangdi river. I remained lonely like a mountain. There was no one to listen  my stories. There was no one to dress up. There was no one to play with. Eventually, I started writing. I started writing in English, thinking that no one would read it if it were written in English. But my English was not good enough to express myself. But I tried. I am still trying. I am still trying my best.

          Time made me a journal writer. My family never knew I started expressing myself in my early adolescence. Because I was an uncanny writer. My stories are mostly replicas of my bad days. Shadows of my traumas. Edges of my own journey. I had a bunch of diaries when I left my village for my high school. Kathmandu was lonelier. I  was bullied.  Now I can tell that I am the product of school bullies. I  was always a matter of bullying. But there was always  writing that kept me in sanity. There were shadows. There were edges. There was darkness of shame. However, I kept moving because the pen and paper were always with me. They gave me freedom from my own cage. Optimisum from my own darkness. Beauty from my own ugliness. In a way, they are everything to me.

          However, I began writing digitally when I was in my final year of undergraduate studies. That was my course project. Either we needed to go for intern or we could do blogging. I chose blogging. The id was opened by my teacher. I am always grateful to him because he taught me how to blog. It was in 2012. But the id that was opened for a school project later turned out to be my diary. Blogging is a public diary at least for me. I write without being judged, edited, and proofread. But it taought me a lot. In fact, it is my writing workshop. 2025 is the 14^th year of my blogging and the year when I wrote almost every alternative day.

                   When I started blogging, it was for a different reason. It was for sanity. It was for freedom. It was a therapy to cope with traumas. But eventually it is a political act. Now I write because no one in my female lineage had the freedom to tell their own stories in written form. Even my younger sisters are not writing. So I want to archive my life, I want to archive in my own ways without any gatekeeping, without any proofreading, without any editing. The meaningful words are also part of me. The words that are not comprehensible are also part of me. I believe I am the most understood and the most misunderstood, both. This is the memory keeping of my stories. In fact, it is a historical memory work. Some day I may go through dementia because it is in my family history. My grandmom went through it. So when I am leaving, I want to put my life like a history. Each writing is a political and historical.

          I don’t think my father’s lineage is ever going to record me as their blood. So, in a way, it is a memory work. I want to politically experiment with my life. A lot of people ask me why I write every day. I always tell that I want to archive my stories in my own terms. Neither is it for publication. Nor is it for purposeful public consumption. But it is my written history. Someday, if I go through these works, I may find them whimsical. However, until now, it is personal but political. Totally political. A designed political act.