Between words and phrases I used to throw myself.

It was through writing that

I was allowed to breathe life into my suppressed self and dreams. Books were
like a friend in hard times. My mother died of cancer when I was five, leaving
her five daughters and son alone in this life. Even though I was too young, it
was agony beyond the power of speech. A mother’s death isn’t like any other. I
thought it was really hard, little did I know that it was only the beginning. Not
more than five years later, my dear sisters Maria and Elizabeth died of
Tuberculosis. Oh how young and innocent they were! As for me, I was
immediately removed from the school for the school's poor conditions
permanently affected my health and physical development. I soon got used to
this, acting as a mother figure to my younger siblings. I was terrified of another
death and I almost expected anything of this life, only my faith in god and then
writing kept me strong enough to confront this. There, I wrote my first poem,
where I started my writing journey. Soon, my siblings and I dwelled in the
magical world of imagination, and each of us had her own journals where she
used to pour her heart and soul into. After I finished my education, I returned
back to my school as a teacher.  I felt like my life was pale; my prospects were
desolate. To rise I had no will, to flee I had no strength. I stayed there, longing
to be dead. One thing only throbbed life-like within me, which is writing. The
sight of words on pages, the feeling of pen on paper, brought me indescribable
satisfaction. It was my sole consolation that continued even after I changed
course and started a job as a governess. It was utterly ghastly how people
treated me for my social status only.  My employers treated me almost as a
slave, constantly humiliating me. Indeed, it is in vain to say human beings
ought to be satisfied with tranquillity: they must have action; and they will
make it if they cannot find it. But it is better to live without logic than without
feeling. In 1843, Emily and I travelled to Brussels to enrol at a boarding school
there, but our time was cut short when the grave news of my aunt’s death
arrived. She was a sister, a teacher, and a mother. But in her last days, with the
wreck of her frail body, her soul grew strong. And though she spoke little,
those around her felt that she was ready. I recognized the beauty of my aunt’s
soul, for though she was unambitious and modest, I could see the beauty and
sacrifice in her. Days passed and I decided to go back to Brussels to continue
my education. My second stay there wasn’t how I expected, for I soon felt
homesick and had to go back to Haworth. For the next three years, I retreated
into the world I created, a world of literary fantasy. Writing has always
provided me with an outlet to express myself. It became my therapy. And so
writing made me appreciate life again. Finally in August 1847, Jane Eyre was
published. It was a joy to behold.  This first publication encouraged me to do
more in life. I felt like I had a reason to live and I did what I wanted. But
unfortunately, death has always plagued my family, and even in my happiest
times, it visited me again. In eight months, my family experienced the death of
three of its members. It was beyond comprehension. The pain was
excruciating, and all I could do is just try to survive with it somehow. Then,
unable to live with this grief, and searching for anything to give purpose to my
life, I started to write again. In 1853, I received an expected proposal from
Arthur Bell Nicholls. I initially turned down his proposal for I wasn’t attracted to
him at all. My father, too, rejected him, but that was because he was poor. My
best friend Elizabeth Gaskell, on the other hand, who believed that marriage
provided "clear and defined duties" that were beneficial for a woman,
encouraged me to consider the positive aspects of such a union and tried to
use her contacts to engineer an improvement in Nicholls's finances.
Meanwhile, I became increasingly attracted to Nicholls upon seeing him a lot in
the house, for he works for my father, and by January 1854 I had accepted his
proposal. I always wrote of simple women, who relied upon the respect of
themselves, rather than society. Through my characters, I gave the gift of the
modern woman, a woman determined to make her own way, and live her life
by her own set of standards, dictated not by society but by herself, and herself
alone.