It's Just Words.

This is the truth.

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1. It's Just Words.

​To whoever is reading this,

​I've written many letters addressed to the same 'whoever is reading this' on Movellas, but none of those are perhaps just as relevant as this. If you've read them all, take note of this one most. If you've read none, leave them and keep this one in mind.

 

​My name is Jade and I've been on this website for a long, long time. I joined roughly four years ago and in that time I've taken many breaks and step backs, none as long as my current hiatus which I'm afraid won't ever be returned from. It's nothing to do with Movellas itself; the website is wonderful, the staff are brilliant, the community (I know/knew) is genius and warm and welcoming. However, it is the writing itself that makes me draw back from further producing and there's a very important reason why.

​To break it down for you, I will present to you some back story. A few years ago I was struggling with a lot of things: an eating disorder, depression, anxiety. I was falling apart at the seams, I'd resorted to self harm, suicidal tsunamis of thought were regular, I couldn't see colour or taste flavour. My worthless life was drained empty and I was left trailing around bare, pretending I was overflowing with content. It hurt me; it hurt psychologically to keep up this make believe act of pure health, it hurt physically to smile at my family- my own mother- and promise that I was completely fine. I was a hollowed carcass with a heart still slowly beating and I didn't know what to do. There wasn't a person I could speak to, there was no therapy to aid me, there wasn't a sport or instrument or hobby I could pour the last drops of my existence into because the depression had ripped its hands into my soul and dragged away every last part of enthusiasm I had left. So, instead of doing the right thing and searching for a person or therapist or basic activity, I turned to something I knew best. Writing.

​Writing offered me the ability to express how ridiculous I felt without facing someone straight up. I didn't have to stare into someone's eyes and admit my problems, I didn't have to feel my speech linger in the air around me as I spilt my whole story into the lap of a stranger. All I had to do was put a pen to paper, fingers to keys, and push everything I had into making something come alive on the page. I wrote stories about characters with depression, I wrote poems about survivors and sufferers, I wrote piece after piece on broken people and broken lives. I thought that shaping myself into different characters, putting a part of my collapsing sanity into fictional souls, would help my whirring mind. It didn't. Then I turned to writing from the perspective of myself as myself and this became my most popular Movella: existence. I watched as the view count escalated the more and more I tipped my lack of worth into my laptop. It felt wrong, writing about my friends and family in a poetic style, placing my life online for the whole world to see, yet there was something that kept me going. I was meant to write a whole year's worth of work but I couldn't. The reason I started was the reason why it ended.

​You see, for a period of time it felt like writing was my therapy. It was as if I'd told my parents and my doctor had assigned me to a place and I was in a room with my very own councillor. Writing put me in a state of comfort- I convinced myself that writing was the reason that sometimes my head felt less cluttered. I used it as an excuse to not do anything else because writing was my everything. That was wrong. That was very wrong. Writing, in fact, did nothing but lay out my issues in front of me. It simply made everything more vivid, it organised everything wrong in my head and then splayed it in a display in front of my eyes. I wasn't rinsing away my issues by writing, I was setting them more in stone. The more I wrote, the more I understood how fucked up I was and the worse I felt. Breathing my existence onto a page wasn't giving me a purpose, it was taking everything away. Now I only existed in a story, not in reality. All I could see was the girl in 'existence.', the Jade that couldn't see or do anything anymore. I surrounded myself with my negativity that I'd created and I couldn't see past it.

​When my depression hit peak, I found myself too empty to write. I wanted so desperately to go back to my therapy but I couldn't bring myself to create something and suddenly this negativity drained away. Taking a break, even though it was because I hit rock bottom, was the best thing for me. I couldn't see just my damaged self now, I saw everything; what I was missing out on, what I was doing to myself, how stupid some of my actions were. It took a long, long time but everything finally cleared and I managed to get myself back on track. I wasn't reliant on my writing, I wasn't reliant on existence. or my Movellas friends or my other stories and poems and collections. All I was reliant on was my regaining health and it was this that allowed me to blossom into who I am now: happy, healthy, and highly satisfied.

Now I am filled with colour. I am overflowing with content, everything is in technicolour and beautiful and bold and bright. I can feel sunshine and I can feel my friends and I can feel great. I constantly find myself looking back to when I was a shell of a child, I read existence. and I frown at my self pity and self loathing. Then I go weigh myself and see I'm just that bit above the average weight for my age and I smile because I am so far from where I used to be. I shave my legs and I don't think once about another use of my razor. I have a job where I work with every age possible and I talk to people constantly and I have never felt socially better. I'm drowning in exams but I've pushed up from my piles of work and now when I don't get the top grade, I don't bruise myself with anger, I smile because I know that I'm not forcing myself to be that top student. I'm accepting me.

​This afternoon I wandered down my road with the sun glaring and a bare ice lolly stick in my hand. I'd completed a maths exam and failed, I'd flopped a chemistry paper, I'd bailed on my theatre yet here I was, feeling free and beautiful with none of it weighing down on me. I looked at the lolly stick and realised it was everything I used to be; empty, thin, hollow, tasteless. I promptly threw it in the bin, grabbed some Oreos and went to go talk to my mother about my school day because I can now fully interact with my family without choking myself in secrets. I don't need to hide my mental health from anyone because I am in a place where I am content, all because I'm not soaking up my own regurgitated sorrows through my words. Stopping writing got me to this bliss and I intend to travel never too far from this state.

 

​All in all, the point I'm trying to put across is sometimes writing isn't the best answer. Sometimes, whatever your 'therapy' is, it isn't the best answer. Sometimes you force things onto yourself because you feel it helps when really, you're just doing it to try and show to yourself how terrible you are. That's okay. It makes sense. There isn't anything wrong with that. From this, you should then progress. Stop wallowing in whatever 'therapy' isn't working and find something better. I found music and gigs and bands, other people found sports and books and pencils. Whatever works best for you, do it. It becomes the case where people can make themselves feel worse all through trying to make themselves better. Don't do that to yourself; you are worth so much more than any misery.

​It should be taken from this, as a final, final point because I'm droning on, is that not all writing is bad. In fact a lot of the time writing is useful. I still write now, except I'll write plays about kids feeling drowned in their childhood home. It's still therapy, but it's mild and less impactive and easy. I don't feel hollow when I write it, I don't feel emptier when I read it. I'm never going to delete 'existence.' because it's a permanent reminder of what I shouldn't be doing. I set it as an example to myself and most certainly an example to others. This isn't the right way to get yourself on a path to better being, or at least for me it isn't, but hey, maybe it is for you. I don't know. Just make sure you feel okay before you help others and make sure the way you help yourself feel okay is actually ​making you feel okay, not making you feel different.

 

​So I say goodbye, and I wish everyone well. Since I left I've lost a significant amount of fans, I've lost a significant amount of followers and regular people but that's okay. Even though this message is long winded and stupid and frankly a little pointless, I still urge you to share it just in case someone needs it. You never know who is choking themselves with their own hands and blaming it on their mind. We are powerful things, don't push it away. Embrace it.

 

​Yours with all my strange, giving love,

​Jade

 

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