I just finished writing a story I started when I was thirteen and a ninth-grader. This was THE story, the one I used to pour all my hopes and dreams and fears and experiences into. The main character was me, in so many ways. 442 handwritten pages (and almost 500.000 words) later, it’s time to say goodbye, however hard that feels. I know that noone but me will ever read this thing, it’s way too personal, but just writing “The End” has me feeling like crying.
Re-reading that monstrous effort makes me cringe with embarrassment at the kind of writing I used to produce. It makes me smile at my own teenage melodrama. It makes me angry at what some people put me through, everything which I have metaphorically written down there through another’s eyes. It’s strange how now, as an adult, I can see the pain some things induced in me when back then they seemed so insignificant because I was so used to being harassed and bullied- except for when I was writing. All my anger, all my fears, all the hopelessness I felt during those years, they’re all there in black and white chickenscratch. I can see whenever I started learning another language, because I suddenly start writing in that (rather poorly often but I did become OK to proficient in some of them). Memories are stirred, good ones too. My first crush, the first time I fell in love, all those plans I had.
Distancing myself from what I’ve been… it seems so easy, and yet, when I read what I’ve written, I haven’t really come that far. It’s been a long way, but it’s been a winding path as well. Down that memory road we travel…
It’s also a record of all the fandoms I’ve ever been into. Oh, the crossover madness! I killed off my main character, revived her again, almost killed her again… like I said, the writing’s cringe-worthy. We’ve been together for so long, her and I, that I almost feel like I can’t allow myself to stop writing that final chapter. Yet there’s this “The End” printed there in my handwriting. It really has been an emotional time, a time of change and development. The me now smiles at the me then, and I wish I could tell that pained little girl that she will be alright in the end, that her story, no matter how many hardships in how many universes her alter ego suffers, will have a happy ending.
I believe in my own happy ending as well, even though I’m not yet there I feel content that I have been able to write it. It’s eluded me for the last ten years (which I spent writing the final fifty pages). That I’ve managed it now makes me believe I’m in a good place, and ready to go forward.
Where do we go from here? To yet another new tomorrow. Yesterday’s story is written, after all.