If you’re reading this, then memory has left.
I swore I would remind you of everything.
From birth to age ten, you were a happy, little boy.
At age eleven, your childhood was stolen.
At age twelve, you realized life wasn’t going to give you what you wanted, so you decided to give it to yourself by writing.
From ages thirteen to sixteen, you did not live. You merely survived.
At age seventeen, you sought refuge with self-infliction. You started punching yourself behind locked doors. You spat obscenities at your reflection.
At age eighteen, you realized who you were.
At age nineteen, the first thoughts of suicide danced through your head.
At age twenty, you lived two lives—the good guy and the bad guy.
At age twenty-one, alcohol welcomed you with open arms.
At age twenty-two, suicide danced its final dance. The decision to crash your car was made. You wanted to die in flames. You wanted your death to be as painful as your life. You wanted to suffer.
At age twenty-two, you woke up from the nightmare.
At age twenty-two, you broke down and cried. And cried. And cried. You wept for the past. You wept for the present. But most of all, you wept for you still had a future.
At age twenty-two, you came to terms and finally learned to love yourself.
At age twenty-two, you were reborn.
At age twenty-two, you came to terms.
At age twenty-two, you started living.
After that, life was too beautiful for you to keep track of time.
You are not a victim.
You are not a survivor.
You fought the bad and won.
You are a hero.
You are everything.
Never forget that.
I know the past isn’t pretty. I know you wished you could forget. But you mustn’t. You must carry around these memories. You must remember what it felt like to suffer. You must recollect the impact of hitting rock bottom. You must never forget. Why? Because it is part of who you are. As much as I wished it wasn’t, it is. Hold onto the bad memories because they make the good that much more.
Every life is worth living.