Most kids grow up with training wheels and either mom or dad holding on to their hand in order to feel a sense of closeness. In my case, I was thrown into the face of reality too early, without those training wheels. I spent my entire high school experience searching for an escape from reality and not in the healthiest ways. Writing saved me. Writing was for me.

Three simple words define me; pain, denial, and regret. I continue to exist today with that particular vocabulary grasping on to me as if they were alive and they were holding on for that final gasp of air before perishing from this world.

I possess my own definition of this so called word “pain”. Pain is just destruction that you cause on your own, whether it is intentional or unintentional,  there's no in between. You, on your own have pushed people away. You, on your own have caused your own self desolation from this world. I always chose the laborious path; overcoming addiction, self harm, depression, and intense heartbreaks. I wrote my first poem on a sleepless night filled with regret and denial due to the bare fact I was diagnosed with depression. I’d write my art around those who had left scars on my heart, until my words got tired of being anagrams of their names.

You made agony look so alluring.
Maybe this is why I felt the need to want you.
You became my drug.
You were the beautiful passion within me.
You reminded me of every beautiful love story I’ve come across-
A love so deep and addicting that I had to drown myself in order to feel alive.

I indeed needed to feel alive after the abandonment of my father and the substance abuse my mother fell into, with a never ending loop of denial. Every night I was afraid of coming home, my father would constantly leave bruises on my skin. I’d cry out loud pleading for forgiveness but it would never approach to save me. My mother was supposed to be my “hope” but she was too busy getting drunk on the idea of happiness. And suddenly my hope was gone in an instant just like my father. His existence just one day vanished away from our lives. Most people drink forget like my mother, and most run far away like my father. I’d fall into mindless teenage romances in order to forget the disastrous events going on at home. Many of these romances devoured my cold empty heart.

Sometimes I wonder if my father ever feel some sort of remorse for the chaos that he has created. Has he created this chaos because I have failed to realize that not everyone who comes across my path will reek of good intentions?

Maybe I’ll never know the incomprehensible reasons as to why you chose to do what you did
Maybe time will lead me into a rigorous path that will reek of good intentions and happiness so I fall out of these bad habits 
Maybe I’ll realize that no one who crosses my path will cause as much destruction as I can on my own

Writing saved me. Writing was made for me. I will push myself until the very point where I’m out of similes and metaphors to intertwine my art with. I believe in me! And, what I’m capable of pushing myself to do, because this is my challenge and it will continue to be my challenge. So I can say with confidence “Hey dad, I did it without you.”