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

their friend

their brother

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