When I was a kid, and I started to think and reason for myself, I came to a realization that my life was useless. It stemmed from a even greater realization that Life is pointless.
At that moment, I wanted to die.
I remember trying to tie my sheets around my bed to hang myself.
I remember failing terribly. My nine year hands could barely even tie a knot.
But I tried.
And I cried
I knew that my life was worthless, but I knew I couldn’t end it. I knew that my parents would be devastated.
I decided at that moment that I would live to be someone else’s.
Someone else’s son
I began to qualify my life through the lenses of other people.
I looked at other’s for everything. My status. My conduct.
I was a side character in the story of everyone else’s life. I was there to make their life better. My early childhood friends emphasized this in me. I was the butt of the joke; the best friend.
I was a part of the story though. It was someone else’s, but real nevertheless.
I thought the whole reason that I was alive was to make others happy.
That was always an option, and that worked. I was a pastor’s kid, so there was always a chance to serve and help people directly help them.
It worked, I didn’t care about what I meant, as long as I meant something to others
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