A/N: So I recently discovered the game "The Beginner's Guide" and it hit me hard. As someone that has a passion for art and creating, the overall message meant a lot to me. If you want to see my influence, check out jacksepticeye's video of it: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OPP9pdApRQE. It's long, but definitely worth it. I've been thinking a lot about if writing is worth the struggle, and I've had days where I'm confident that it is, and then days like these, where if I do write, I write about how hard it is.
Dear _____,
I expressed all of my hopes and dreams to you. As my confidant, I trusted that you would handle them with care. I was always starving for your validation and encouragement. You knew how I hated it when someone told me I wasn't good enough. Your words kept me breathing and creating. So when you gave away my work to strangers you ran into on the street, that left me torn into pieces, just like that poem I wrote for you. Remember? The one you said wasn't good enough? I write for myself, but because you were so selfish, I tried to dedicate every page I wrote to what you wanted. When you were satisfied I felt whole. I wanted--no, needed--your praise. That smile, paired with telling me what to write and how made me swallow every bit of resentment, any bit of pain I felt for my supressed imagination, and I did it. I did it for you. In the end, even when I followed every direction I was pointed in, it was never enough. You wanted more meaning, more eloquence, more emotion, more, more, more, always needing more. I don't know how to measure up to those expectations because I don't have the strength to keep my chin up when I struggle. I don't know how to keep writing for your sake when you're never satisfied. No matter how hard I try, will this ever be enough? Will I ever be enough?
I know, okay? I know I fucked up. I'm the one to blame. Always have been. Always will be. I just need to feel again. Anything, just please, let me feel! It's like I'm hooked on your praise, your criticism. When I had your approval or your scrutiny, I could strive for something. But you left me in the dust, telling me I wasn't good enough, wasn't going to make a difference. I'm stumbling blindly about, and I don't even know if I'm on a path anymore, or if I'm walking back the way I came, or if I'm just lost. I can't find anything to reach for no that you left and at some point I lost my drive to keep going toward what I want instead of you. You knew having an impact on someone's life was my dream, and that writing was my way of doing that, but even when you knew about that fragile dream, you told me it would never happen, so I believed you and let myself fall into the clutches of grief and hatred for myself, for you, for my future.
When your eyes lit up, seeing something they liked in my work, that moment was my oxygen, keeping me alive. But your eyes never lit up brightly enough to light my way out of the prison you locked me in. I couldn't see four feet ahead of me and you laughed at me, trying to stay on my feet in the dark, trying to find some way into the world outside of these bars. I relied on what you said and did what you wanted, and for one glorious moment I was able to feel! So I kept coming back to you for my daily fix, that feeling of being complete. But you left me, and I'm writing this, trying to find something in me other than this emptiness. I've become numb to the world because maybe if I'm numb enough nothing will break through and hurt me like your absence does.
You lulled me into a feeling of comfort and trust, then screamed words of defeat into my ears. And those words worked into my brain and under my skin. They slid under my skin and lodged themselves under the surface like acid, burning me deeper and deeper. Your venom slowly killed all of my happiness and passion. That spark burned out and the one thing I could rely on, my ability to express myself with a pen and paper, was murdered by your verbal abuse. You destroyed my sanctuary, lit it up like a bonfire and watched as my life's work turned to ash. With every strike of your tongue, my soul was broken a little more until there was nothing but dust left and I no longer cared or had any drive.
How do I continue living when I've lost every reason to go on? Maybe if I apologize, that would help. I doubt that any words will make anything better, but I can try. So, I'm sorry, okay? I know you hate me, and you're justified in doing so, but I need your presence. How am I supposed to write without you? Come back, please, I'm begging. I know I write only for you and myself, but I can change that, I swear. Please, just help me again. I need to feel comfortable in my own mind again, despite what you say and despite the fact that you tore down the walls I worked so hard to build. You made me feel comfortable with myself, and without you I can't even pick up a pen without feeling a weight on my chest. I can't do the thing I want most to do. Did you abandon me to find someone with more skill? More talent? You wanted more, so did you finally find that? If you did, are you happy now? Or is it still not enough? Just return to me. I promise I will finally measure up to your expectations.
A/N: I feel like I need to explain a few things. The most important of which would be who this letter is addressing as the "you." Now, when I began writing this, I was writing to a part of myself, kind of a letter to past me, or maybe the part of me that wallows in self-pity and uses self-deprecation as a defense. About halfway through, the person changed to something different. I began to address my creativity and passion as if it were a person. I feel as though I let myself down at times when I don't measure up as strongly to my expectations. I try way too hard to satisfy others, and at times that can be detrimental to my work. I think of my writing as something very personal, and I try to be genuine with people that read my work, but I'm a cautious person when it comes to fully trusting someone with a part of me. Sharing my writing is like giving someone my thoughts in tangible format, and I have trust issues (which, if you were to know more about me, is understandable). A large part of my trust for you lovelies is because I don't have to physically see you when I walk through the halls everyday. I was hesitant to even be workshopped by my Advanced Creative Writing class, but I do love criticism. It's a bit paradoxical that I love my work receiving critique, yet I'm terrified of trusting people to actually read my work. Anyway, that's really what the meaning of this piece is. Anyway, I've been rambling, so I shall say toodles to you lovely people. I'm going to find food. HUGS!!!
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