Need Critics PLEASE!!

Ok so I'm entering a writing contest, or well I think I might be entering a writing contest if I get decent feedback.  I am posting this in an effort to get genuine criticism.  Please don't be afraid to hurt my feelings or be very blunt.  If something sucks or is a little too much or I have bad puncutation PLEASE TELL ME.  This is not an attempt to pump my ego balloon full I really really want a genuine critique. I saw this contest on a friends post and decided to enter.  It's non-fiction on the topic of 'Invisible Writing' and we are told to interpret as you will.  I kind of took it out of context but hey, that's what writing is about.  I may fall flat on my face or I may get one step further to what I want to do with my life.  Thanks everyone for reading!!! xoxo

Invisible No More by A----- G. H------

My great-grandmother was the first person to ever acknowledge that my words meant something, that they gave me value in the world as a person.  With a troubled single mother and long forgotten father I felt invisible to the world. My great-grandmother was all I really had to turn to for love and guidance; she was my best friend.

I was eight years old the first time I ever wrote from my heart.  I can't remember how it started or why, all I know is that the words began to pour out of me onto that paper before I could even think.  I'll never forget what I wrote, "Love isn't written on paper. Love isn't carved in a tree.  Love is shared between people. People like you and me." 

I remember my great-grandmother looking over my shoulder and smiling with pride as she patted my head. "Very good sweetheart, very good" she said as she lifted it gently and placed it on her refrigerator door.  To me it was like a trophy and she treated it like it was her most prized possession. It was then I realized that my words are what made me stand out; they were the only thing that made me visible to the world.

My mother moved us away when I was 11, leaving me desperately alone without my great-grandmother to guide me.  Mother's drug habits and neglect only added to the pain I kept bottled within myself.  So I would escape to my only safe haven, the only place I could make a difference in the world, my secret writing. 

Notebooks upon notebooks lined the shelves of my bookcase, each written page torn directly from my heart, each line of poetry just another vein opened up to flow onto paper.  It was my means of release and escape from the tumultuous world I was living in. I began to document every broken heart, miracle and life story that I witnessed as a chronicle of the world around me.  I just knew that someday when I was gone my words would be found and that they would tell my story.

Over the years I found less and less time to pour my heart onto paper.  My notebooks faded along with the memories they cataloged and life found its way of moving on despite me. I was 21 when I went back to my home town, just in time to watch my great-grandmother fade away in that nursing home.  

"She can't see you and may not remember you" they told me before I visited that day; her vision had been lost along with her memory, heavy hearted and determined I went anyway. 

She was sitting by the window when I walked in.  She wasn't at all like I remembered her. I sat down beside her and called her name "Gaga, its Angie.  Do you remember who I am?"  She sat quietly staring out the window and shook her head.  "Rhonda's daughter, your great-grand daughter Angie" I pushed gently hoping she would remember me but she didn't.  I was determined not to give up.

The next day I rushed to the home determined to make her remember me.  She was sitting by the window again humming to herself.  I sat down next to her quietly and reached out for her hand. "Gaga, it's me Angie.  Do you know who I am?" She looked confused, as if she were trying to remember and shook her head.  I took the faded paper from my pocket and I watched as she bobbed her head to the rhythm of my words, "I wrote this for you a long time ago" I began softly as I read to her, "Love isn't written on paper. Love isn't carved in a tree. Love is shared between people. People like you and me."

I watched and cried as a smile formed on her face. She nodded as she said "Very good sweetheart. Yes, I always knew you would be a writer my dear." We talked for a long time that day until she grew tired and her memory became clouded once more. I left that day feeling complete again.  That was the very last time I saw her, she died only days later at the age of 93. 

I learned a lot from my great-grandmother through my years, but most of all she taught me to never hide my words. After all, it was my words that made me visible again.  

Thanks again ya'll!!!!

Love, MoSi

**Updated with awesome ideas from Sally G!! Thanks Sally!!!! :)