Through my journey I have worked to achieve a new normal. A new way of looking at things. A new way of living my life. Still, I revisit my “before time” too often and I feel like I have a wasted life. I used to be smart and witty and a singer and a worker and pretty and fun and I and least never lost hope that I would have a good life if I worked hard enough. At this point, I am 36, I have no home to call mine, I have no job, no car, no money. It makes me wonder if I do the things I do because it is something to keep me busy until I die. I love helping people, I love being useful to others. But when the help is done and I am alone again, I hold a vigil for the me that once felt like I could be something more than this. Whatever I am now. I feel like a tool. I get used to fix other people’s problems then they can go lead a productive life while I die a little more inside. There are people who have it worse than me, so I know I should try to just be happy, but everyday I wish I had come off of that table with a simple mind that didn’t feel trapped inside of a body that tortures me incessantly. I suppose my work here is not done. I will continue to bear the burdens of those around me until they finally weigh me down enough to give up. I miss my life. I miss my autonomy. I miss living, because this IS NOT LIVING. I simply exist.