I thought I'd found my story

I thought I'd found my story.
I thought I'd found myself.
But now I feel more lost than before.

I decided to go back and give my last completed novel a fair chance. A real shot at querying. Now I feel so foolish. It doesn't matter how much I love that story. I just... I need to write something better. Totally start over. And yes, I already went through this, and despite praise all I could see were faults. But little by little my confidence returned. It's just the way writers operate, I think. Then tonight, an email from a long-forgotten person I'd asked to critique the story. And she tore it to shreds. It's a mercy I didn't receive that email months ago when I felt totally uncertain about myself as a writer. It might've pushed me over the edge.

I read every word of the near-five pages she sent me. Every. Word. I can't stand looking at my story anymore. It really was just another learning experience. And the one I started recently. My once beloved new story. Well that one's just as bad.

I don't know what to do with myself. I can't write to a professional level. Just can't get there.

The sweetest relief would come if my stories would just stop. If I didn't feel this love inside that makes me want to write. If I could stop this desire, amputate it from my soul, I would do it.