I committed emotional suicide two years ago.
Perhaps it wasn't really emotional suicide, but I know for a fact that something inside of me died while I was in the process of recovering from what seemed like an eternity of aimless walking. In the midst of all of this, where do I place myself? Would wishing I could turn back time and still know then what I know now actually get me through this?
I always believed that writing saved me from whatever pain I could have encountered when I was younger, and it really did. Writing was the only way I could escape from the nasty reality that plagued my life. It was the only way that I could leave home without even leaving my room. Like an artist would paint a different world to jump into, I strung up words to create a place I could run to the moment reality became too much to bear.
The twelve year-old me would hate the me now because I gave up on so many other worlds-- the castles I could have built, the villains that could have failed, the heroes that could have triumphed-- all because I stopped writing.
Writing-- and being able to write and create-- was what I lived for before. It saved me, and I can't believe I turned away from one of the things that gave me a purpose.
Now, I live for something greater.
God gave me an imagination that combated the loneliness and aimlessness that I was deeply submerged in, and for that I am truly thankful. Now, not only do I write about the heroes that have won, but I also write about something, someone greater.
The empty pages of the countless notebooks I own are my self-inflicted scars. How many world would have come to life if I chose to write? And this time, I am choosing. I choose to live.