I am a writer.

I am a writer but I didn't always believe in my words.

A writer is made up of their words. They are defined by each letter and syllable that is put to paper. A writer dedicates their existence to the craftsmanship of desire, dysphoria, and delight and, furthermore, to perfecting their ability to evoke such emotion from the depth of each and every one of their reader's imagination. A writer's life is perpetuated in their pen and archived by every paper written upon; only dismantled by fire or flood, but even then, they are commemorated in memory. A writer has the skill to bestow immortality upon those who lend inspiration. The ink of their pen is their blood and a piece of their mind, heart, and soul is preserved in their narratives, poems, and stories.

And so, nothing is more broken than a writer who does not believe in their words.

I dated a boy in high school whom some of my readers are familiar with, but whom many don't know. We were together for two years and within those two years I watched my confidence slip away from my grasp, I watched my pen run dry and roll off the table. Towards the end of those years I fell into a void in which I would not escape for months, and in which I have not been able to talk about until now. No, it was not writer's block that ailed me, it was a deep belief that I wasn't good enough, that the words I wrote would never be perfect. I was physically unable to pick up a pen and put words to paper. And I fell because the one person who's opinion I cared about the most could not tell me that I was doing a good job.

The power of praise is stronger than you may think, especially when it comes from someone who you try so hard to please. This boy and I started dating in high school, we met in the newsroom where we both wrote for the school paper. We developed certain affinity for one another, we saw the world in the same way. We painted with the same colors, described our feelings with the same words. We both craved adventure, found euphoria in imagination, and wished for something more. We talked philosophy in the forest, we created metaphors by the riverside and found patterns in the stars that shone in the ebony sky each night. He believed a little more in the good of humankind than I did, but we clicked in a way most other people didn't. We understood one another, and for a while, it felt right.

We shared our dreams with one another. He wanted to change the world; his brain was built on the grounds of science. He was smart, and he knew that he was smart. Most of all, he hoped that everyone else knew that he was smart. I was smart too, perhaps not in the realm of science, but I could recite my Shakespeare and understand Faulkner's As I Lay Dying well enough to remain near the top of my class. I told him my dreams too, to be an author. I told him I desired to influence the world through my thoughts, to describe what was, originally, indescribable. We both dreamed big and while I saw that as a connection, he saw it as competition.

I trusted him, and this is where things began to turn wry. I shared with him what I wrote, some of it unfinished. A writer must truly trust someone in order to share with another their unedited work, for it is there, in their raw words, that a writer's mind, heart, and soul is most prominent. I shared with him these words, thinking I would get encouragement in return. We were partners after all, that's what partners do. But I was sadly mistaken, for no matter how many stories and poems I wrote him, he was never satisfied. Never. As he was the copy editor in the newsroom, he was the copy editor in our relationship. Never did the words "I like what you wrote," or "you phrased this well," escape his lips. He told me what I could fix, but never what I did well.

This continued on for two years, and for some reason I kept coming back for more. I shared every word, every sentence, every story I ever wrote with him, and after he read it, it always ended up crumpled and in the trash. Every idea was shot down, every sentence was reworked, and gradually, all my confidence began to disappear. Yet, I continued to write. For some reason, I had to impress him. Some unspoken competition existed between us. He too was a writer, and I never thought his words bad. He convinced me that he was some undiscovered Shakespeare, or Petrarch at his best. I looked up to him, but never thought I could be as good as him. Just as he could never give praise, I could never dish criticisms. And so, I was always the student and he the master. I, perpetually failing and he, forever better than I.

And so I fell into the wordless void of self-depreciation. The further I fell, the less I wrote, until my pen ran dry, and the words were caught in my head, unable to escape. I remember panicking, feeling the words pressed against my skull. I stopped sleeping, for there was never silence in my ears. Success fell further from my grasp, and I succumbed to the darkness. It was there that he left me. Not understanding why I had become so dismantled, so unsure, he left me in the void for a life that didn't include me. A life better. He won the competition, and I let him. I believed he superior to I, and I handed him the crown while falling to my knees and bowing my head. He took it from me, placed it on his head, and walked away, never to return.

I didn't write a word for months. I let them eat me alive and I thought I would never find confidence again. So, I ran away. I ran to Nebraska, a place where he couldn't find me, and I picked up my pen and brought it to paper. There, I began once again to write. I found people as well, who believed in me, who I could share my words with, who gave me the praise I always needed to succeed. They became my friends, and slowly, I regained all that I had lost. It took time, an entire year, in fact, to feel some sort of pride in my work. And I do not think myself a prodigy of Shakespeare, or anywhere as proficient as Petrarch, but I believe myself better than that boy ever believed me to be. It took me a year, but I climbed out of the void. And I did so word by word.

So, to all of you who love someone other, be sure to give them praise. There is a power in praise that one cannot live without. Too much leads to conceit, as I saw in the boy, but he faired better than I who was entirely without. If you believe in the someone you love, tell them. Tell them they are doing fine. Remind them they are well. Help them to better themselves but do not push them down just to make yourself look better. There's should never be a competition between you, but a fine balance that lies in the hands of faith and the need to do better together.

That boy did not only break my heart, but my mind as well, and for that he will not be forgiven. A heart can be repaired again by time, but a broken mind can only be fixed with faith, space, and a little praise. That's all I need to evade the void, but instead I was pushed into it and forgotten there.

I am a writer.

I am a writer and I didn't always believe in my words. But I do now, and I believe them to be the thing that will keep me happy, the thing that will keep me safe. I will not let them be taken away from me, but I will hold them up like shield and sword. For if I am nothing else, I am a writer, and that cannot be taken away from me again. As for the boy, he will remain immortal in a fictional body. A writer can bestow immortality to anyone who lends inspiration, and I have found inspiration again.