I'm 20, and it all started when I was 12 years old. So yeah it's been 8 years since I've been obsessed with this fictional character. I don't want to say exactly who he is, but he is from a real life movie not from a cartoon. It affected me pretty hard mostly on my style/aesthetic choices. He is that 'edgy-goth' type of character so I always tried to be like him for some reason.

It doesn't bothers me at all to be honest. I like to daydream, make up stories in my head, and just do my thing. I never felt such a thing towards anyone in real life. I never dated anyone, and I'm kinda lonely but I don't mind it anyway. I can't really tell what love is, but if it's the same thing that I feel towards him then I guess I know what it is to be.

My daughter has a rare blood disorder called idiopathic thrombocytopedia pupura (immune) which causes her immune system to destroy her platelets so she just bleeds, randomly. Her eye just haemorrhaged a few weeks ago and an entire half was filled with blood, today, five hour nose bleed.

She can feel when they're coming and she sits down with her bloody nose kit, tissues, a trash bag, a puke bucket for when she swallows too much blood and vomits, gauze, cold packs. My daughter is four. I have been able to convince myself for almost three years that yes, she is sick, but not THAT sick.

Last week we spent four days at the hospital for severe anemia and no detectable platelets. She is THAT sick. I get it now. She is getting a wish, and she is getting worse because she is that sick. We have tried every medication available for treatment of this disease. Nothing helps. Nothing fixes it. My heart is broken.

I'm not proud of my citizenship. And I don't know why. I blame the mass media, the TV, the good looking celebrities from the other side of the world.

(I can't blame my parents who gave me a childhood where I was always compared by others. I don't want to hurt them.)

I'm not happy with the color of my skin. Judging the way I look I think I don't have anything pleasing.

I fascinate other people with a different ethnicity than I am. People who live on rich countries. People who can travel wherever they want on any part of the world. I think of those people to be better than I am, luckier than I am, wiser than I am. I like how the lady, that I saw last time with a skin brighter than I am, well-dressed walking on the garden, taking pictures, was enjoying herself. I also love the color of her hair. I think it was gold or blonde.

I cannot blame myself. I have to confess it, and I wish there will be a time where I can finally love my origin, my family, where I came from, and myself as a whole.

I want to be a writer. I'm 40 and I've always wanted to write stories, but I don't know when and how to start. I mean, I've been writing some things in a while, I write ideas, and I journal. As long as I can have some decent time to sit down and clear my thoughts, I can write.

But I always allow myself to complain about my time, I feel like I don't have enough. Sometimes I find myself complaining about my work, and how much time left do I have to do other things. Stephen King (during the old days) still writes while working on a laundry shop. I admire how he managed to do that. I'm thinking of a way how it will work for me, and with my current situation. I know, I am complaining again.

Productivity tips that scattered online didn't help me. The people who wrote those tips have a little empathy. Their situations are not the same as mine. I am unique. What works to the mass doesn't mean it can work for everyone, including me. I am still looking for the best, although I'm not looking for perfection.

Anyway, that's simply my confession. I want to be a writer someday. I really want to.

Bed

NO, I can never be a 100% mom to you my little ones. I'm done with all the babywearing-and-breastfeeding-workshops season of my life. I tried to be 100%. I dedicated my two breasts to you when you were young. That's more than 6 years (3 years to each of you) —of nipple sucking every 4 hours round-the-clock.

But I also have my own dreams. I want something more than staying with you 24 hours a day 7 days a week. It's not that I am not happy seeing your smile. But I also want to be in a different room or go out and feel how to be a real human being. Now I have to deal with these anxieties. The question of who-am-I? is creeping in. Yes, I could be very skilled about motherhood but the other set of my characters are diminishing. I'm starting to forget how to be a real human, which is more important than just being a good mother.

I long to be a real human capable of being happy on these linear events. To see that on this linear world everyone can have that wonderful experience from simplicity—simple yet anew. To witness ideas and novelties that everyone is also curious to find out whether from the inside or from the other side.

Now you are 7 and 11. I'm still here to attend to your needs and it's my choice. I need to write it so I can somehow figure out the answers that I keep on looking for.

I don't want to escape this season, I promise. You are my joy. I will be your mother until graveyard. We are related. I will always love you more than you could imagine.