I am a writer who used to never be seen without a notebook and pencil. I was the quiet kid who would get yelled at for not doing classwork because my mind was always filled with ideas for books. I loved to write as it was my way of running away from my life.

Writing was a way to hurt people without getting into trouble, to write my true feelings on paper - because no one wanted to know how not okay I was. Writing was the healthiest coping mechanism I had, and even it wasn't exactly healthy. It made me feel valid.

As I got older life got in the way of my writing and so did I. I became obsessed with comparing my work to others just to tear myself down, and apart. I started to write terrible things just so I could have yet another reason to hate me. Boy, did I have a list of reasons, too.

My writing habits got more and more toxic and the stories became more and more...