I'm broken, baby

I hate everything I've ever written.

...That's how I feel, now.

I hoped this wouldn't happen, and it's worse than I thought it could ever be. I put up a smile and nodded and responded kindly. But, looking back on it...I should've known better. It was bound to happen, with my mental record. My unstable mentality. All that my writing means to me...Why did it have to go this way? Is this some sort of fucking cosmic joke? 'Cause if it is, I refer you to this lovely entry from the BBTxx.

...And, so.

Around four, five—maybe even six days ago, I joined a writing critique site called Critique Circle. I'd heard of it, before. Had no plans on joining, but not for the reason I'm writing this pathetic entry. (It's not too late to stop reading.) Then, a day later, I joined another critique site called Scribophile. I honestly like Critique Circle better. Scribophile reminds me too much of a fanfiction site, so friendly and open and ripe for reading new, good shit ten times better than anything I've ever written...

CC is hard and cold. Greys and whites. Verdana. No Book Antiqua, there.

...Anyway.

These sites are both for helping writers become better writers. I knew that going in. I knew I could handle it; critique is what I always wanted for my stories. I need the help, and I've known it for a while, now.

Funny thing is, I never let any of the critique I've received get to me. Even if I didn't like it, I regarded the words carefully and took what good I could from it. Most of the time, if not all the time, people try to help.

...But apparently, I was wrong. You'd think I know myself better, by now...

There is a tit-for-tat system on both of these sites. You want critique? Critique in return. In fact, you have to critique first in order to post your own stories. I get that. It makes sense. It's so that no work is ignored and overlooked. Everyone gets a fair chance.

But the more I read other people's work, the more I learned about what to do, to improve, to change...something in me began to break.

Now, I can't write. I hate my stories. I hate my everything, more than I do, as it is (and since you don't know the scope of that, I now realize I have to make a suicide-laden future entry, soon). I can't begin to explain how devastating this is. I loathe my work. They're pointless, horrid, sad excuses for stories, and my words are shams of decent narration.

This is merely how I feel. I know this wasn't meant to be the outcome of this experience, and I know this can happen and does happen to...unseasoned, new writers...such as myself, apparently. But...

I don't know.

Something in me is devastated. Hurt. Angry. Why is my work not good enough? I worked so hard, for so many years. This is all my fault, in the end, I guess. I never ever wanted to pick up a formal writing course or anything like that, considering myself "good enough", if nothing else. Nothing bestseller-worthy. Nothing, maybe, even praiseworthy, in my neurotic eyes.

...But it was good enough for me.

Me. The one who mattered, at the end of the day.

I loved writing.

I was happy with my work.

I loved my work.

And hated it, but for different reasons; I could never finish them (like that has changed at all).

Now, I hate them because they exist and they came from me. Me, who should have known better and noticed these writing mistakes I've made over the past—hell, I don't know. 20 years? How long have I been writing? Since before I could write?

I wish I could wipe my slate clean. Erase my work over the past several years, erase them from my memory. I hate them. I hate them all. They didn't come from me. Me, who should have noticed something was off about the way I write. No passion, no life exists in my writing. And now....now it's so painfully obvious that's the case.

Fuck you; this isn't some wallow in self-pity. I have no pity reserved for me(i).

None.

This is rage. This is anger. This is hate. It's always been that way.

You have no idea.

...So, now, what? The past fuck-knows-how-many years have been a waste. Perfect. Start over. Get better.

But it hurts too much.

My characters are my children. I truly nurture them, want them to have worlds to thrive in. I can't just get rid of them. But the way my mind works...I don't know where to start, anymore. Every attempt to write or type, I cry, and I can't even stand to look at my words.

Something within me is in so much pain.

I don't know...I'm just...rambling...

I can't write, anymore. Not the way I could. Everything is now wondering if it's good enough, hoping I remembered this, remembered that, followed this rule, that rule, made sure I wasn't using this word too much, that word too much. It's not...it's not my freedom, anymore. My joy.

I hate writing.

I hate my writing. I hate my handwriting, too, but we won't go there.

If it was hurt from the critiques, I could handle that. But this...this is a nightmare. Wake me from this torture.

I just want to write, again.

I just want to have fun, again.

...This isn't the first time I've thought about this...but what if writing just...isn't for me? Hell, the amount of trouble I've had over the course of my existence just because of my writing...I could tell stories.

...if I could fucking write.

And here you are, probably thinking, "It's just a few days, dammit! What the hell are you crying for, you melodramatic child?!"

Yeah, well a few fucking days is too fucking long, in my book.

...Doesn't matter, anyway, eh? I guess I wasn't cut out for this writing gig...Shame I had to find out after wasting my entire life on false hope.

We'll see what happens next year...or some shit...

Until then...I now I have to remove all of my everything I ever wrote from my computer files and/or store away my old shit...

Happy fucking 2k18, guys. It's going to be a wonderful, swell new year.

I am done with this godforsaken one...