I wish I believed in my writing. I wish I believed enough in my writing to properly commit to doing it. I don’t. I get momentarily deceptions of confidence, but then I lose it almost as soon as it lands in the palm of my hands.
I wonder how it works. How can I believe in myself reguarding so many different aspects and genres, despite what everyone says, and still – when it comes to writing, to express myself, although I can hear people cheering as my fingers type each letter – I doubt myself?
Is it possible that we are all low on self esteem when it comes to the things we know? Or are our critics simply shouting out opinions at random, blind to the truth, or perhaps even neglecting the true nature of talent itself?
I’ve been told so many times that music is not the way to go. “Impossible”, being one of their favorite definitions. That’s the only thing I wanted to do, it’s what I’ve identified myself with for most of my life. My dream has always been to be a musician.
When I was a child I recieved nothing but support.
When a person is a child, you don’t want to take away their dreams. You don’t want your child to look at the world and the future as something boring, unattractive, meaningless “thing”. You want them to be happy. You tell them (and probably whilst sincerely thinking you mean it) , that “You can do anything you set your mind to.”
Then they get older, you’re looking at the bills, they ignorantly and excited show you their newest work, so certain you’ll applaud, so sure that you’ll support. But the child is no longer a child. The child has evolved to teenager. Teenager is so much closer to adult than child. There are limits, you say. Only 1 out of 7 million people make it, you say.
And what? Your child shrugs it’s shoulders and starts building an interest for mathematics?
They move their focus to the floor. They nod, if they don’t try to fight you at first. They cry behind your back, and they stop showing you what they’ve been working on. They stop sharing the tiny bits of their mind and soul. And you wonder what happened to the happy, excited child that once invited you in, not knowing you shut it down, broke their trust or hunger for adventure. And then somehow, you’ll start complementing something you truly feel, know, think, is their greatest talent of all, something they for sure can become the best at, and your good-for-nothing-child without directions, goals, education, will shrug her/his shoulders, and not believe your words at all. Because how can this be different from before?
How can you say that I can be a writer now, like you said I could be a musician before?
How can I trust your words again, when you deceived me, rejected me, played me, just for temporary smiles and sweet oblivion and happy photographs?
No, I know I’m far from talented. I know there’s nothing I can finish. I know I can’t finish a story, finish a song, finish a study, finish a chore.
I’m a failure at this moment, and I’m well aware and content about this fact.
But in 16 days I’m moving away. Different city. Different deal. Far away from deception, except the one I carry out myself.
Far away from everyone I care about, my sister, my nieces, my life. I don’t want to think about that now. My eyes start dripping when I think about Australia.
When I move, it’s for better things. When I move it’s for music, for meeting equal-minded soul-mates. When I move it’s because I can’t stay glued to this shitty small-town, and because it’s time I grow up and start a own life of mine.
When I move, there’ll be no weeks without my boyfriend close to me. When I move, there’ll be no psychological shields surrounding me. No fear of painting, singing, playing, dancing, I’ll do whatever I please. I love my family so much it hurts to think about it, but it’s damaging me to stay here, and I need to go.
And if I start believing in myself regarding anything, then, once I’ve become the best;
I’ll let you know