I thought about filtering this message, but after what sparked a need to write it, that felt like a cop out. I'm not a coward, so I'm putting this out there for anyone who wants to read it. If you read it all, great. If not, I really don't care. I spent a month in therapy and I kept going once I'd completed the requirement. I didn't want to make that well known, but now everybody knows. And I'm going to keep going. Because it helps. Because people say it's okay to not be okay. Whatever. Maybe it's stupid but I have someone to talk to. To actually talk to. And I'm not used to that.
Claire suggested it might help if I opened up a bit. Problem is, I don't do anything in bits. Because taking things seriously is why I'm still alive. For now, at least. Magicians in my world are egotistical assholes. Some of them are okay, but they still have incredible egos. I was one of them. And I had something to prove. But before that, I grew up alone. A lot of us did, I imagine. But most of our family photos didn't even have me in them. To my mother, I was an unwelcome burden. To my father, I was a financial drain and someone else's problem. So I was raised by a string of tutors until I was old enough to take care of myself and then that's all it was. Until Brakebills. There I had people who understood my gift. People who were interested in what I could do. But I found out over time that it was my intelligence and skill that they cared about, never me. But I was used to it, after all.
So that something to prove. I went after everything I could find. Lost knowledge. Rituals. Artifacts. Nothing was too out of reach. I didn't care if it cost me friends and family, because I didn't have any. Holidays were quiet time for research. The dean even called me the most gifted Magician he'd ever seen. More fuel for my budding ego. Until I found something I wasn't prepared for and it shattered me. But I didn't know at the time, because Brakebills and their enormous egos decided it would be better to punish me for reaching too far and wiped my memories and put me back in my empty house with no idea of what I'd been doing for several years and all my training forgotten.
I had to teach myself. I found hedge witches. Street mages. Demons. Devils. Beasts. Some would teach, some would try to feed. Being a hedge is no joke. It is very literally kill or be killed. But I didn't care. I had to know more, I had to learn. I was still me, but everything seemed so clear. So easy to do if I didn't care. There were others. People with little sparks of magic. Nothing that was "enough" for high and mighty Brakebills. If you didn't have enough talent for them, you were left to fend for yourself. And Magicians and their egos, as I said, fucking hate hedges. Despise them for wanting to know more about what they can do. Even if they know they'll never compare to a true Magician. They're treated like shit. I took that as a challenge. I protected them. I clawed my way to the top of the game in New York, then the entire east coast. If you needed my help, you'd get it, but there's always a cost - has to be, otherwise you're weak and will get taken out.
I've been betrayed, so many times. Twice by people I let get close. And somehow they found each other. Maybe that's karma. Maybe I deserved the betrayals, I used them just like they used me to learn greater magic. We used each other. It's a manipulation game. These two, they tried to steal everything I'd worked for, everything I needed to protect those hedges I let myself swear to look after and teach. I didn't know it was them at the time. I thought it was my equivalent on the west coast, making a nationwide power grab. So I didn't hold back. One of them died. I made a mistake that I can't fix. I don't regret it. I should. But I don't. I have had to do a lot of bad things to survive. There's no room for regret.
Okay. You saw a little girl show up on the network a few days ago, presumably. She said she was me. My Shade. I was shattered. A Shade is a part of your soul. The part of you that feels things like compassion, morals, regrets, and so on. I don't have that part of me. I didn't even know that (again, than you Brakebills) until recently. I don't know how to.. get her back. So she's here. And I finally understand why I'm broken. But I can't fix it. I don't know how.
So she decided we should call her Molly. Because Molly was my best friend when I was a child. My sister. The only person who was ever there for me. Molly was a doll that I got at some point longer ago than I can remember. Molly sat at dinner with my parents sometimes instead of me and they didn't notice. Molly is a better me. If anyone out there can help me. Please. Because I want to feel again and I don't know how. And I keep hurting people because that's all I'm any good at. If not. If not, I'll go home and you all can have Molly instead. Maybe no one will notice.