I used to dream big.
I used to dream of being an author, my name shining bright on the New York Times bestseller list with my tales of tragedy, mental illness, and self-destruction.
I used to want to live in the Big Apple attending a prestigious school studying, aspiring to become a notorious psychologist.
I dreamed of having a family of my own, surrounded by childhood friends without a worry or care.
Now I hardly dream at all. Nightmare plague my reality. I am living a tale that my characters would endure-rarely making it out alive.
I’ve become the tragic, neurotic, destructive creature I write about. I can barely see to tomorrow let alone any further into the future.
I would spend hours researching and constructing dark worlds to portray suffering but now all I need to do is pull circumstances and experiences from my own life to achieve this.
I have been abandoned by all; I have become the client I used to dream of seeing.