I used to be quite an eloquent writer and considered myself an intellectual. I always was the guy who was quiet, introverted, but always thinking. I learned that I was sharper, as well as more linguistically literate than my peers, around high school. As I came to my junior and senior years, my love of learning as well as philosophy and writing was my strong suit. I always struggled with depression and anxiety, but otherwise I had a pretty good life.
When I started college I was like a kid i
(Wrote this awhile ago, decided to finally post, if not for any other purpose than expression of grief)
I guess I have learned the hard way how true that old cliche is: you never know what you have until it's gone.
I always was told how smart I was, the perfectionist in me never accepted such, nor how eloquent a writer I was. I used to banter with my professors on their level, and I was only an 18 year old. My professor told me I was one of those rare students. One who actually thought a
I probably will never be as good a writer as I once was because of the heavy amount of weed I smoked, especially near the end when I was smoking multiple a day at times, but I can still flounder all I choose I guess. I will probably sound completely moronic compared to my previous skills, but I can at least try to practice.
Here goes. My topic, which is particularly close to me, is the mental health field. As any one who is familiar with the field knows, it does not generally promote views w
Since I have experienced my fallen mental capacity I have struggled with the desire to find hope in something, even the religion I rejected. This desire brought me to tears, trying to shoehorn my mind into the structure of Christian fundamentalism, albeit the more sentimental and loving kind I knew towards the end. Despite this desire for peace and hope, I found something curious and wholly ironic: I no longer feared it was right, and had no inkling of faith that anything could be gained from pr