If You’re Reading This, I’m Alive.

If you’re reading this, I’m alive.

I don’t know why I’m writing this, but I feel this pressing need to share my story. If not with a wholly uncaring public, then at least with an impassive screen, judging nothing and recording everything.

29 years have passed, and I had no idea I’d make it this far.

Honestly, I wanted to call it quits at 24, which seemed like a decently ancient age to my teenaged brain. I couldn’t handle it anymore. From the catastrophic to the banal, being alive felt like a death by a thousand cuts, punctuated by a number of blunt force blows.

But here I am, at twenty nine years of age – 5 years past my Best Before date.

Now what? What do I do?

I suppose once I realized that I was not going to end my life, I had decided to rebuild.

When you plan on residing in a place only temporarily, not much care is put into maintaining your proverbial meat temple. Hell, my temple feels more like a crack den; neuroses, repressed rage and despair, and some majorly latent homosexual tendencies all resided in the shadows.

I, like so many, didn’t know myself at all.

I, unlike many, decided it’s damn time to find out who the hell I was.

So I guess I’m writing this for a number of reasons. Masturbatory catharsis, an attempt at being a cautionary tale, an olive branch for those I’ve hurt, and just a record left by someone wanting to make some sense of things in her head.

I hope by the end of this book/blog/whatever, I’m still here.

Life has been painful, confusing, hilarious, sexy, depressing, joyous and all that. It certainly hasn’t been easy, but I am glad I stuck around.

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