July 5, 2024
Dear reader,
I wanted to take a day off after publishing my essay on Lolita, seeing as though it took me almost three full days to complete. And yet I still worry that it is not good enough, though I worry about that with every piece of work I finish. No matter how tired I am, they are never finished, never perfect or profound.
I know that even that is not profound, and many, many writers have felt this way and that more likely have indeed felt that way more than not. I suppose this is a feeling I must learn to deal with, but I almost feel a weird high, or maybe rather a hangover, from releasing my essay on Lolita out into the world. It is the first time of me really doing an essay for fun and dedicating so much time to it with the chance that no one will see it or like it. It feels like I’ve cut a piece out of me and served it on a sliver platter for hungry critics to feast upon. The vulnerability is freeing yet so, so terrifying.
I have been sharing my work with my close friends and my partner and I wonder if maybe it would easier to share those parts of myself in quiet, in a weird sense of anonymity, even though my face and socials are posted here. It still feels easier to write here, like a literal diary, than to show these things to my family, which is scary because I’ve never felt that way before. If anything it has been the opposite, me eagerly bleeding onto pages and waving them in front of my friends for even the smallest amounts of validation. That I am not a bad writer, that I am not a bad person.
I suppose the sudden change is from sharing my story and ties to the infamous Lolita, which I see as a pivotable period of time that tied me to my fate of meeting some the of the worst and cruel men I have ever met. If I had not been obsessed with this idea, would I have been prey to a 26 year old at 18 and then at 19 with a 25 year old? Probably not.
At least I wasn’t underage, however I was on that line and still mentally there due to the abuse of my childhood. No matter how book smart I was, my mind was fragile and I was easily persuaded and used.
I guess now I am doing exactly what I wanted to avoid in the essay, which is explaining more of my personal experiences and trauma. Though I won’t go in to detail. I do believe it was better this way so my trauma didn’t overshadow the real reason and purpose of the essay.
I won’t say much more, but I do believe I will hold these emotional scars forever, though I hope they lessen and become a baby pink instead of a hot, red wound to pick at. My mother says I am stuck in the past, but she has spent most of my life ruminating over her own trauma so I will take my time, indeed.
I may open up in a more diary entry way more often, however, I prefer the glossy finish of poetry for the details of my abuse, as it is easier to make it flowery, beautiful, intense, and bittersweet. It is harder for me to write about those things so directly, as I like to hide behind metaphors and purple prose.
I will try not to get stuck in the cyclical mess that is my rumination, but I cannot promise it. I hope the essay can help others and maybe bring us together. As I know I am just one of many girls that have fallen victim to this.
Thank you for reading, thank you for caring, Love, Mel
Song of the day:
