Self-Crushing

The mind of a writer, or those who think they are, is frightening. There always seems to be a cloud of depression and self-doubt looming above you, imprisoning you in the mindset that you're not good enough—or ever will be. You read books and get the courage to rise above whatever emotional stupor you're battling only to sink bank into the void.

Sometimes I wish I was one of those who can enjoy swimming at the surface, who never think what the deeper waters hold and who do not desire to go there. They always seem to be happier.

What destroys me is the pain brought by words. Especially if they are cruel, especially if they have been said by someone I love. It is easy for me to forget a punch that it is for me to forget a verbal insult. A stranger once called me fat and ugly when I was in fifth grade, and I carried those words with me until I was well into college. Even now they still haunt me although I have heard them refuted a hundred times. With a word, I easily fall apart.

My mind sometimes scares me. And sometimes I wish there was a way to shut it all out, to go to sleep and never wake up again. Sometimes I wish I never wake up.

I read the stories of other people who write and have begun to wonder if this self-crushing inadequacy, if this chronic depression is endemic, maybe even necessary, to those whose lives lie in the vertical axis where words reside. The world is joyful—why can't I see it sometimes? Why am I always trapped inside a catastrophic train of thought that makes me so sad?

Someday, I told myself when I first decided I wanted to write, you will be good enough. Not perfect, just good enough. Good enough to face reality. Good enough to love and be loved back. Good enough to write. What I'm realizing is I'm never good enough, and perhaps I will never be.

To my eleven-year-old self, I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I didn't grow up to be the person you dreamed about. I'm sorry that I'm such a disappointment.