The habits I developed then still follow me heavily influencing the people I love and the people who love me. My self destruction is kept as hidden as possible because in a sense, a writer loves to write about her pain. A writer loves to cause the drama and destruction for the feeling, for the story. It's a little sick actually. How can someone love wallowing in the darkness so much that you swim in it, eat it, hold it like a baby when really its the monster that's damaging your insides, internal bleeding.
Maybe all writers who are also artists are just cursed people. And I am forever cursed to love this demon inside my heart, forever sing it to sleep. Who knows if this book will ever become a reality. There is so much of the story I want kept to myself. So much of it is too raw for me to want to spill onto the world. My struggle was too private and now, to reveal all of my secrets, I guess maybe I'm afraid of what life could be without them.

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