Writing is a huge part of me as a person. When I’m lonely or depressed, or even when I’m feeling suicidal, I sit down in front of my computer and write a short story about depression. Sometimes the character kills herself in the end, and sometimes she drifts off to sleep and the ending becomes ambiguous. Sometimes it’s not even about suicide. But writing fills me with hope, and it seems to be something I can follow.
One day I went to my Language Arts teacher to talk about a poor grade I had received on a allegorical-type story. I asked her if she had interpreted it wrong and I tried to explain it myself, but she told me that in the end it was just because my writing was “awkward”, it didn’t flow well, and that I apparently didn’t have enough emotion or feelings in the character. That irony alone almost made me laugh. I took the “constructive criticism” and thanked her before leaving. I wanted to kill myself.
I talked to people about it and they told me that it wasn’t a big deal and that it was only one person who thought that it was bad. I know this sounds like a stupid reason to want to commit suicide. But writing is the most important part of me. At the end of the day, when I’m tired and sad and I don’t want to keep on running, I return to creating. I put my pain in my characters, I put my fear and my love and my hurt in my stories. And someone, a somebody who happens to be an English teacher telling me that my writing is bad, hurts me so much.
Maybe I’ll get a lot of hate for this post. And I’m not a very strong person. But i just wanted to put this out there, and let people know how I cope.