My Start With Writing

I worry often that my writing is not good enough. I know I’ve said this before, but I have a bad habit of repeating, something I wish I could get rid of. But it has been proven to me with this blog that my writing is good and can be powerful. It was an acquaintance of mine who got me writing – and then convinced me that everything I wrote was less than worthy of her time. It was trash compared to what they wrote.

I met this person at twelve years old and I knew them for years. Even though they got me into writing, they also convinced me that everything I did wasn’t good enough. Eventually, I saw how toxic this person was, but not before they shamelessly pushed me to the point of being suicidal. Since then, I have been in near-constant therapy and my wonderful mother went and spoke to this individual, telling them that they were no longer welcome in our home and that they were to never speak to me again.

I don’t entirely know why I felt pressed to tell this story, but I did. Lastly, I just want to say that you don’t have to listen to anyone who is cruel to you, because I’ve recently learned that a person’s cruelty is a reflection of themselves, not you, or what they might say about you.

Even when I speak of this person, I avoid using their name because as terrible as it seems, to me they don’t deserve to be referred to by their name. They nearly destroyed me, but I thankfully came out on the other side.

I will never understand cruelty. The motivation behind it, the way others think it’s right to act that way. I will never understand it, sans I hope that upon reading this that you can possibly shut a toxic person out of your life as well.

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A Game of Life

It’s interesting how bullying affects a person. It can harm them, destroy them, or just make them laugh. I’m the first one. I would say that I’ve been a victim of cyber bullying in the last several months. I might have already spoken about this in my last post, but I honestly do not remember. A lot has happened since my last post. But in my eyes, I’m just grateful that I’m getting back to writing. I’m grateful that I’m getting back to doing what I love and trying to be who I am. It’s been no secret to those around me that I share just about everything about my life. Not because of sympathy (gosh, please don’t), but because I know I can inspire people. I’ve done it before, and I’ve always wanted to tell my story. But recently, I discovered something: I don’t really want to tell my story anymore.

It’s not something that sits well with me. I always knew, even from a young age, that I would speak about the things that I struggled with to everyone around me and that I would publish an autobiography on my life, and many more books. But a few days ago, I took a long, hard look at my life. I’ve been pursuing writing for eleven years, and it finally occurred to me…maybe I don’t want to be an author. Maybe I just want to write for myself.

Before jumping to conclusions, I finally did come to the realization that I do want to be an author, but later. I’ve decided to take two years off from writing the story/novel that I’ve been working on for eleven years now. That wasn’t a light decision, and it’s not easy to turn away from something that has kept me going for so long. It’s frustrating, but I knew that it was doing me more damage than it was doing good. Because of this, I needed to take a step back.

In March, I was rushed to the Emergency Department with my blood pressure 60’s over 30’s. That’s where they usually start chest compressions. This was before I even turned twenty-three, so I was still twenty-two at the time. I’ve since had my birthday. Anyway, I’ve always had my fair share of health problems and the like, but falling to such a low blood pressure was alarming, and very scary. I realized I wasn’t myself, and when they told me that it was because of the stress of my life, I knew exactly what it was: it was forcing myself out of my bubble and trying to make it as an author.

I had an acquaintance, and we met when we were twelve. I’ll just call her Arryn, as that is her stage name. I don’t want to call her out by her real name because I don’t think that’s fair. Anyway, Arryn was a writer, and when I met her I hated reading and I hated writing. She forced me to read a few books (she had a very dominant personality) and then convinced me to become a writer. Because I’d come from a background of never having been treated well except for by my mother, I thought this was normal behavior. It is not.

So, I started writing. And every single day she told me how much I sucked at it. I let this go on for six years until my mom refused to let her have anymore contact with me. This was after I’d been on suicide watch, in a treatment center, and was before I lost the rest of my friends from their disinterest in me. But my mom wouldn’t let it go on any longer, and now that this person is out of my life, I realize how much damage she did. I’m only twenty-three but I feel like an aged war veteran (no offense whatsoever to war veterans; I know you go through so much, and I am humbled to have you fight for my freedom).

It wasn’t until even later (a few days ago) that the sole reason that I would write was because this person would only accept me if I was a writer. She had stamped my self-esteem down so low that I felt like I was nothing, and then was manipulative enough to force me to try and gain her approval. Of course, pointless, but I was just a small kid. I didn’t know any better, and I thought that the way she treated me was just how the world was. So, I wrote. And wrote, and wrote, and wrote. And every day I was told how horrible I was at it. I was laughed at, she pointed her finger at me, told lies to her mom about how I’d ‘hurt’ her, and manipulated other people. I hated her for it, but at the same time, I wanted to feel like I was worth something.

So I kept writing.

Now, it’s many years later, and I haven’t spoken to her since around when I was eighteen. I kicked her out of my life, and now I only have my mom and brother, and my boyfriend. That’s it. I have become estranged from extended family as well. But I began to question why I wanted to be a writer, and whether I truly wanted to be a writer in the first place, and I finally realized that I only wrote because I was forced to.

At this point in my life, I have found some enjoyment in writing, and I know that I’m good at it. This is what years of therapy have done for me. And I’ve wondered what I truly want to do.

What would I like to do with my life? It always seemed like the whole plan was mapped out for me; be a writer, publish books, and make a living as an author. But that’s not what I want to do. Right now, I’m finding interest in other things. Video games, music, learning, other languages, and more. I’m finding that I have so many more facets than I thought I did; more than was imaginable at the time this all had taken place.

However, in the end, I did realize one thing: I do love to write, so long as it’s for me and for nobody else. So, I will be a writer, and in this jumbled up post where I don’t really know what I’m getting at, I’m here to say that after that self-discovery and hard look at who I am, I have decided to take two years off from pursuing being a published author. Not only that, but I’m taking those two years to find myself. I’m going to do what suits me, and what I find fun. Learning Japanese. Streaming myself playing video games live on Twitch.tv. Making mediocre art YouTube videos. Learning the guitar. All of those things that I’ve neglected in my effort to please.

So, if there’s anything that you, the reader, can take away from this, just know that if you don’t like what you’re doing, change it. Be what you want to be. Be who you want to be. Life is far too short to waste time away being what others have wanted us to be. And we are far too important to allow others to make our soul-searching decisions for us. That’s for us to decide. And I’d say that we make some pretty darn good decisions when we pursue our passions.

It’s a game; sometimes tedious, but worth the play.