Why am I doing this?

I grew up with words - my father is a journalist, a writer, a historian. But I had associated all the negative traits I saw in him and in the Writer's Union with writing itself, for nearly all my life.
But I guess I can't fight it anymore. Graphomania is both hereditary and acquired. I've loved books since I was 6. Books were my world, my respite, my reality, much more real than the grim Soviet world of food queues, abusive schools, and dysfunctional home. I lived in the jungle on Borneo, traveled to Victoria waterfalls and to the North Pole without leaving my couch. I cried for "les Miserables" and laughed with Ilf and Petrov, dreamed of other planets and tried my brain at Latin.
I see and analyze and feel as if I had no skin on, and the only respite, just as ever, is in words.
I can't write in Russian. Every word I manage sounds so cliche, that I erase it immediately. But thankfully, the love of my life, English, is there for me. And the internet. So thankful.
Constructive criticism is welcome.