When I was young, I can reasonably swear I thought I was bullet-proof. Despite the that was happening in my life, you know, like being shamefully poor or, you know, watching my drunk father beat the out of my mother, or, you know, receiving death threats from my father... I mean, bullet-proof, like if I did end up dead somehow or another, it just would be cool. I mean, not cool, cool, but I'd be relatively okay with it. Yeah. So I got in to a lot of trouble growing up. I wasn't a good kid. I had really bad anger issues and I was involved in long, cyclic fights, alcohol, weed and boys. Ah, boys. I liked them. Their fleeting but ardent affection always made me feel like I was worth something. I mean, I knew there was something wrong with me. I mean, I knew it. At least, give me that credit. I was promiscuous. But I knew it wasn't right. Waking up with a hangover in a rain gutter, or under some stranger's bed... I knew... there was something wrong with me.

But I was bullet-proof. I mean, no one could really hurt me because I already felt mangled inside without any help. My home life was ty, and I knew I kept myself high just so I don't drown in misery. Yeah. Yeah, whatever. Now that I am relatively old (and I mean relatively, because I may have entertained the idea of dying really young), I think about the past where I burned the candle at both ends and now, the wick of my life is all but spent. And I don't even have the energy or the audacity to spend my life in drunken-vomit filled stupor.

I thought, you know, that if I tried living an upright life, if I tried being a good person who followed my dreams, I would know what true happiness feels like. I know things now consciously--that I am loved, that I love, and I want to live a life of contentment.

The media perpetuates this quote: Too Young to Die, Too Fast To Live, and eventhough I am not GDragon, nor do I have a secret lamborghini in our parking lot, I feel like I have lived through this quote and I am on the other end. I mean, I was a when I was young. A ton of other girls hated me. I stole other girl's boyfriends. I made boys cry. I made my friend's feel like . And I thought not giving a damn was what how happiness felt like.

But order introduced itself in my life through the cliché romantic love that I am not going to get into, because that's not the point. I got married to the love of my life (as crap as that sounds) and I notice the fissures on my bullet-proof life. I don't think I have lived right. I mean, to put it simply. Everything was just wrong. I don't think I am capable of loving anything or anyone in the right way, and it's sad to be so... I dunno... emotionally crap. Heh. Just you know.

It took me a long time before I accepted that I needed to be medicated. It started with anti-aggression, then I was moved to anti-deppresants, with a combination of anti-psychotics. I take them regularly, then I don't. I guess I just feel like it's unfair, how I am eternally sick. I don't know.

And good bad days look like this. I mean, good bad days are days that I feel essentially worthless and not try to kill myself. That's it. That's my success. My success is not trying do anything even if I have reached the deepend and there is no more will to live.

I used to think writing was something I can love where I am who I am and not a liar or a fool, just me. Just me, whatever that means. I don't try to impress anyone. I don't try to be put together. Just, you know, the regular me.

The problem was, in writing I got to know people, and peple got to know me, and in the end, I feel like I am still performing some role that I don't want to be. I keep thinking who am I? Am I tortured artist? Do I need to bleed to be credible?

And after a while even that passion to write is littered with anxiety. I am not a good writer. I am no good.

I once thought writing was the only thing I was good at. It felt natural to me, and in printed words, I am the most honest.

But people read what I write, as it should. Because I write to be read. This is the truth. If I wanted privacy, then a private journal would give me the same comfort... but then I blog... because I want to feel that I can publicly be myself and be okay with it. No shame. No celebration, but also no shame.

Recently... I want to say after Eric and Nikita died but I don't know if their deaths were truly the triggers, I can't talk myself into even pretend liking to be alive. I want to work to scrape the minimum at least. But I just can't even pretend I feel worth anyone's money. I think life is cruel that way. I mean, all I want to do is read, or watch, or play video games, but I need to pay bills. I don't even drink anymore, and I have socially acceptable escape routes, but still I can't escape .

I don't know what to do. Medication, I think, is keeping me from killing myself. I mean, I think I relatively still want to be alive, but at the same time, life feels like an uphill climb, and I am lying on the curb wanting to be on the other side but I am not moving... I don't know.

I don't sleep. I just play games and marathon shows. I feel kind of pathetic. And not even drunk faced. Just -faced and I don't even have an excuse.

My mentor is telling me never to give up my passion, but honestly, I don't know where it is. I used to like to write. I really did. It felt like it was the only place I am myself and now I even hate that one place I can be truthful to myself.

I just want to be a rock. Just a rock. With no thoughts. Or feelings, and just... you know... not be wishing for comfort that I don't even think I really deserve.