It went something like this:
The world: Everyone wants to be a writer
Me: You're not special, you're not talented, you'll never make it.
The world: Filled with literary genius, people who can create
Me: Still scrawling how much I hate myself on to a page
The world: There will always been someone better
Me: You're not good enough. Never will be
The thing that I have only just come to realise is this: I am a writer. I have written for as long as I can remember and no-one can take that away from me. Now those words, ones I wrote in the midst of an ill-understood pain, help me realise how much I hated myself, how not ok it was and how far I have come. The help me to understand I wasn't just a moody teenager. I didn't just eat too much or not eat at all. I wasn't unattractive and horrible. I was just extremely good at pushing everything good away.
I am a writer.
