So wild. I’m less than three months away from entering my thirties. If I could go back in time and tell me from ten years ago how much I’ve accomplished, she’d cry tears of relief.
I got a Bachelor’s degree in English and creative writing without debt.
I lived in the UK for half a year.
I’ve had meaningful romantic relationships with both men and women.
I’ve published over a dozen short stories.
I’ve been to nine countries.
I moved away from Hellhole, NC.
I have a cute little airy white apartment in a downtown area.
I am fully finacially indepentent and have a job that helps people.
I have friends who will not shun me for speaking my mind.
Am I any happier, on a daily basis, than I was at nineteen? Not really. I despise my life. Every Sunday I get unbearably depressed thinking about going to work the next day.
Am I proud of what I accomplished? Absolutely. But I just wish I found a way to consistently want to be alive.
Here’s hoping I accomplish that -- if nothing else -- in the next decade.