to: the invisible reader // from: the invisible woman

I don’t let myself write. Like ever. I thought I didn’t have enough time to try, but even when I do, I refuse to try. I thought I do not have enough potential, but even when I have an idea, I refuse to try. I thought I do not have enough support; well, that point may be accurate.

In college, I wrote a short story for a creative writing class assignment. It took so much encouragement from my father to even enroll in the class and I would battle panic and dread before each and every class. I would fantasize about writing good stories, but would dread every minute before class. Our teacher, Julie, was a very conventionally pretty and good-natured graduate student. Once I found out she had a boyfriend, I thought she had it all.

Julie was so kind to me. She encouraged me so much. I had trouble believing her because of it. It seemed unrealistic (and still does) that someone with so much of the social status I lacked could be decent to me.

I really enjoyed most of the books she recommended and tried to imitate a Shirley Jackson book for my assignment. Julie noticed and complimented me on making it my own. My classmates complimented my sense of humor in it. I showed a subsequent draft to my sister who separately told me she found it funny. I didn’t mean any of it as a joke.

It is hard for me to believe Julie’s encouragement still because she was one of the only people to pay attention to my words. Speaking of, no one will even read this story and yet I’m crying as I write it.

I would ask why I’m trying so hard for a dream that will never materialize, but I’m actually not trying much at all. Why does it feel so excruciating to write each word when I know that I’m only writing a paragraph a day (if that) and nothing I write has a common theme. That might not be entirely true. I dread thinking about the self-loathing that all of these posts are probably steeped in.

I wanted to write a poem today and say: “What a horrible thing to be coveted.” I feel so stupid for wanting to write a poem with that line or a poem at all. Anyway, let me leave it here before I break my own heart.