I have been writing in a journal on an almost-daily basis since I was 17 years old. This is a record of me going through each entry from the beginning, and commenting on the me from fifteen years ago.

Life is beginning to become more and more bitter. Little reprieve in sight. With not even a shred of respect, I have nothing to stay for.

Still I work, and I find it fullfilling to be sure. If I can keep in this habit, I’m sure I’ll get better. Perhaps when I’m published, things will change. I doubt it. Only after I’m successful will things be right. Hope I can wait that long.

My mom and my sister pulled me aside as I was gearing up to leave home in a few days, and sat me down at the dining room table. Never a good sign. My mom told me she checked on the business and could find no credentials for it, and she didn’t think I should go. My sister told me that I was going through a weird period in my life and that she had already done something similar to what I had done (which was true, she moved to California when she turned 18), and she didn’t think I should go.

They never forbade me from going, but they just continually pounded in a message to me that this was not a good idea. And I listened. And I didn’t leave.

I went to my room and cried for a long time, probably over the frustration of feeling trapped again. Then I decided to pursue my other dream of being a writer, and I started working on short stories, comic book scripts and magazine submissions every day.

I always wonder what my life would have been like if I did take that travelling job. I have no doubt now that I wasn’t emotionally prepared for it, but I ponder what the experience would have been like and how it might have changed me.