I want to be creative. I’ve always thought I would be. I have moments where I feel like I am and very much could be. The thoughts that go through my head seem like ones that others might enjoy. There is always something stopping me. I am paralyzed by the thought of my writing or my photos not being good enough.

When I was younger and I had all the excitement and ambition that younger people tend to have, I felt like I could do anything. I wrote constantly with no censorship and took hundreds of photos. Most of these were not any good, of that I can be pretty certain. I didn’t need to be encouraged, but looking back what I did need was to not be discouraged. Papers and photos were thrown out. I was to my face told that what I was doing was a waste of time. You read about artists that rose above that criticism and setback to go on to bigger and better things, living in a cot in a basement apartment in Hell’s Kitchen so they could be around the creative energy of NYC. I am not one of those people. I believed that I was no good and even though I still had the desire, I could no longer find the passion. When I did muster up some courage and write a few pages or take a few photos, I judged myself so harshly for not being perfect at it that I destroyed it. I ripped pages out of journals and set them on fire so they could never be read. I cut negatives into hundreds of pieces. I wanted so desperately to be better, to be perfect, but I was too afraid. I’d want to take a class and feel that crushing anxiety that I wouldn’t be able to understand or do better or as well as other students. I was afraid to try because if I tried and failed then she was right.

As I’ve gotten older the depression and anxiety has only gotten worse. This morning I was crying with my head on his chest, confessing that I don’t know what I’m here, that I don’t think I’m particularly good and anything and I don’t think I have the guts to do something about it. I’ve been crying on the way home from work everyday, looking at the beautiful mountains and sunsets, thinking of the pictures I could take, but never stopping the car to embrace that feeling. I get home and I hide inside and unable to move sometimes out of bed. I think of all the things I want to do and the things I am missing out on and I go even further into myself because it makes me feel like a failure.

He tries to reassure me, as he always does. He says that I have to develop my skills, that I won’t be good overnight. He says that he knows her voice is the loudest in my head and he wishes he could drown her out. He wants me to try and having even one person in your corner pulling for you as hard as he does is enough for now.