The Reality of Being a Writer. (Part 1)
I have been on this earth twenty-nine years now and I have no clue what the fuck I'm doing. I'm just trying to be a good person and do better for myself, whatever the fuck that is. In the last ten years, I've lost myself, found myself and fixed myself. I finally feel like I've fallen in love with myself and you have no idea how good that feels. It took me years to realize my worth and some people may never find it. I know what makes me happy, what can make me sad and what I can do to avoid the sadness. You'd think I'd learned that when I was fucking twenty-two, but no. I was too distracted, the self-loathing, the hate I had for myself. It was unbearable at times, where it caused the worse depression I've ever had. I still think to this day, what would've been if it worked? What would be remembered of me, if I took my own life that night, those nights. I woke up and realized I had a second chance at life. I was still here and it was for a reason, granted ...