When I was a teenager, there was the period that I thought it was for the best if I ended my own life. I was afraid of people, responsibilities, future: practically everything. I thought the world would be better off without me. I stopped eating for months and cried endlessly because of my own despair I had created.

What saved me from the dismal selfish period was keeping journals. I turned to the healing ability of words. I felt as though I made the ultimate beauty when I described every negative sad emotion of mine on a paper. Thinking back, I was too ignorant to appreciate how fortunate I had been that I had my own bedroom and food to eat. The spoiled brat, who did not know anything about the reality of living, best described who I really was.

Now I have a job that demands the skills to face people. I am responsible for many things and I have the future I want to live. I eat a lot and I don’t cry anymore. And I learned to be grateful for everything and everybody around me. I did grow up, just like everybody else. But, almost two decades later, I still recall that era at times. Its memory deeply haunts me still and I keep on questioning myself why.