Initially, I admit, I was feeling a little smug (it's these bursts of confidence that kept me from quitting the class--that and the fact I really liked my instructor).
We were all in the computer lab as a group, doing something I don't remember. Earlier, I had handed over my first essay to the English instructor so he could give me feedback before the final draft. I anticipated mostly positive remarks--the piece was the best writing I had been able to do in well over a year. I hadnt written anything in over a year, besides short entries in a journal at my last stay in G2P.
I felt like I had lost my creativity forever, only to be granted it back in the form of an essay called "The Devil Dyed Me Blue" (a clever title that made no sense in the first draft). This showed promise like opening the gates of the mind and riding the river flood to some new, fertile forest.
In short, I could write again after countless rounds of ECT and after all the psychotropic medicines I had taken.
Plus, once I started that draft, it came to me so easily. I felt blessed.
The English instructor has my paper in his hands.
And then I see it. There are marks upon marks of his writing on the edges of the essay like small cuts on the arm as the blood just starts to dry, turning the vibrant red into an almost black.
Was it really that bad? I'm thinking, Did I misjudge it so? My heart slips and slides down into my gut, hallmark of disappointment--in myself.
The English instructor wheels himself in that short chair over towards me, and angles the paper so I can see better.
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