The self who never had the chance to become.
Confronting my old self is part of letting go.
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Journal entry: Date: August 22, 2022; Time: 4:29 PM; Day: Monday
I don’t know. I gave my all. Whatever I could, still not enough. Never enough. I wish I could afford [sic] to hire an editorial team to help [sic] make this book more decent. Right now, when I read the printed chapters of the book, I feel like I can’t continue. It’s a trash in my eyes. It didn’t spark me. It’s as if I was holding and reading the stupid work of a high school student. How could I even make it better? What else must I do after all the effort trying to swallow an entire book about self-editing? Still, nothing helps.
I asked myself, “Is this the work you’ve made in the last six months?”
That’s trash. It didn’t speak to me. I hated it. I loathed every word right there. Well, what else do you expect from someone like me? All I could afford was a yearly Grammarly subscription to help me out. There’s still so much work—I have to make money and pay the bills. I tried. I submitted proposals, but nobody wanted my service. I’m such an unfortunate, miserable person.
I just hated the book. Hated it. But I’ve been working on it for so long, and still, it’s crap. I could even throw it away in the trash bin so I wouldn’t see it anymore. Fuck! I can’t do anything better. Such a useless bitch. Give up! You’re such a worthless piece of shit!
Better die.
(This entry was written when I was working on “The Rival,” my first novel, just months after Amazon KDP banned me temporarily. Honestly, it was the most depressing moment of my life. I was lost, confused about where to go and how. But I had to go on and endure the painful grit.)
Confronting my old self is part of letting go. The self who never believed in herself for quite some time, who never trusted her voice even once in her life. You see, I’ve been hating myself for a while. And it has been two years since I wrote this entry. Two years of searching for a spark, a path while trying to rebuild something within myself that was lost, trying to figure out each puzzle piece, all scattered underneath the chaos of my screaming soul.
I’ve written three published books now. One novel, one nonfiction, and one novella. On my desk, I finished two novels (one needs the last chapter), and now, I’m writing a new one. As time passed, I became accustomed to my ‘How’ and ‘Why,’ working with them like my professional criteria and my personal beliefs, applying them not only within my authoring life but across aspects, from personal and interpersonal relationships.
My ‘How’ and ‘Why’ should be strong enough to stand firm in my decision. Whatever it will be. If it isn’t, I won’t do anything with it. Not an inch. Such a big, impactful lesson for someone who was once caged, used to having people dictate my life; when my ‘How’ and ‘Why’ weren’t valued enough.
Honestly, I’m quite surprised at how far I’ve gone upon knowing myself in layers, accepting both my sun and my moon, my light and my shadow, the angel and the beast living within me. No side will be left behind or judged like it was a shit show.
Even with a Scorpio moon, I have to learn how to acknowledge the painful image like it was a beautiful painting and then let it go. So far, the best way for me to express myself and my art is through creative writing. A conscious decision to reveal my unconscious, to confront the consciousness that died a long time ago. To free my soul at last. This way, I’m saving my personality before it becomes hostile to me. Take this from Robert Bly’s words, author of “A Little Book on the Human Shadow.”
According to K. M. Weiland, in her Instagram post, she mentioned the three good metrics for identifying our shadows being projected onto others. She named name-calling, expectations, and self-abnegation. She defined it as:
Instances of self-abnegation or false modesty indicate parts of ourselves we are trying not to take responsibility for. For instance, if I say I am too weak/stupid/inexperienced to handle something, then really I am failing to claim my sovereignty.
Through the characters I’ve developed, I have confronted my own shadow. The ‘Me’ I hadn’t known I was for many times. The ‘Me’ who was never heard. The ‘Me’ who always lived by other people’s expectations. The fluid writing process forced me to go through years of shadow work, unveiling the hidden parts of me with open arms. The artist living inside.
At its worst, I jumped off my swivel chair and rose to my feet once, slamming my hands on the table for support. My skin fluttered, dampened with cold sweat. The panic swirled inside me, filling my nerves with uncomfortable tingles that felt like fear. Immense fear. The kind of fear you feel whenever you stare at the empty door, anticipating your stalker to come out and run towards you.
Later, I understood that conscious anxiety was an unconscious fear of letting these things go, revealed and seen by all.
Then, imagine that door is your eye. Your pair of eyes knew something was coming out of your system, and you were preparing your brain to keep the composure intact. But as it rose, you felt your insides lurched forward; you didn’t know what to do with it. Your conscious mind would say, ‘I’m just writing,’ but deep down inside, you feel something was rising to your chest. And you didn’t like the feeling of breaking loose, losing yourself.
But you have to. You have to bleed typing those fucking keys and write that shit down. No matter what. You can’t just turn around and leave.
Before I knew it, the confusion and frustration took a sudden turn and became a full-blown panic attack. It took a few minutes, but it felt like forever. My entire body shook, my vision blurred, and my mind was haywire. All that was left in me was the strong will to keep my hands on the desk for support.
Little did I know I was facing my shadow all the time. And that same shadow wanted to fight against me, to show me parts of myself I hated, kept hidden beneath. It must have been so painful for my soul to let go of what used to be, sending me uncontrollable shockwaves from head to toe. For the entire fifteen minutes, I was helpless, unable to control my body, forced to wait until I calmed my senses down. Calm enough to think straight and, perhaps, wake up.
Later, I understood that conscious anxiety was an unconscious fear of letting these things go, revealed and seen by all. That meant, at the back of my mind, I was still holding on to the self that didn’t serve me well anymore. I didn’t want to remove the self I was used to because it was my comfort zone.
It went on and on for the next few days, which easily turned into weeks. Only God knew how long, but it took me a year to go through this hell and get used to it. It was when I wrote Valon De Lara, a character in my upcoming novel, “Dr. Clay,” the first novel I wrote in the last two years. During the entire process, I incorporated intuitive writing and shadow work during its development, from the characters to the overall story. Its essence, if you will.
The moment I wrote my truths on the pages, I felt something left in my system. The familiar pain I’ve been bearing with the weight on my shoulders vanished as if it never existed. The familiar self-punishment I once sought was no longer an attractive option. “Something died,” I told myself once, though I would never know what it was.
“We humans may want something for any number of reasons all at the same time. Sometimes we are conscious of those reasons; sometimes not. Sometimes we think we know why we’re doing something when really we’re only partly conscious of our true motivations,” Weiland wrote in her article about incorporating the character’s shadows into our work. A helpful tool for creating complex, powerful, and realistic characters. At the same time, the most beneficial tool, out of all the things I tried, to achieve the inner peace I never thought was possible.
“What’s the point? Is this the work you’ve made in the last six months?” I asked myself every time I finished each draft, setting them aside for future rewriting, editing, and publishing. Because a novel usually takes six months, a novella for 2-3 months. Two years ago, I would have screamed and loathed myself for the mistakes and for being stupid.
Imagine it took me six months to write a fucking draft. Six months of laborious work, alone at my desk, while enduring the hustle and bustle of life for financial stability. Since I didn’t have any means, finding my own resources was common sense. I had to learn things on my own to the point of almost an obsession.
So, why?
Because for the first time in a long, long time, I found the spark—the same spark I lost as a child. The unicorns and my dearest self whom I failed to recognize.
The self who never had the chance to become.
A conscious decision to reveal my unconscious, to confront the consciousness that died a long time ago. To free my soul at last.
Right now, this question feels different. Looking back, there was no doubt my self-publishing journey started with a crazy beginning, to say the least, as panic attacks became more frequent when I began exploring myself through fiction. And through fiction, I could tell my truth.
I overcame each day until that day turned into months, then into years. I still get anxious time by time, but not to that extent anymore. Most of the time, I can handle myself better than in the last couple of years, dancing with the music of my mood swings and voices of childhood trauma with a smile. Through years of shadow work, I finally became friends with my enemies living inside me. And they had no plans to leave.
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