It took me a while to figure out what my purpose in life is. Who I should be. I was often comfortable and confused in isolation, alienated from the busy outside world when I found a love for books and writing.
I would spend some days at the British Library in London sitting with a book in solitude – having an open mind at the people who created such an imaginative world where you can escape your inner fears. I may struggle with cognition and statistics but I was not born to be a mathematician. I was born a writer. I was never accepted for who I was throughout my life but I would not subject myself or allow others to deteriorate who I was as a person. I believed in myself and I believed that one day I’d be able to do something positive for someone else.
I listened to others scrutiny. I objectively defined myself based on another’s opinion and this caused me great inner pain. I’ve let go of that inner pain and set myself on a new path – where possibilities are possible, where I can transform the darkest memories imprinted within the surface of my imagination and make something out of the criticism, out of the doubt, out of the controversial abnormality our brains have encompassed us with.
When we build we have to be willing to sacrifice. And when we sacrifice we have to ensure we are looking out for others as well as ourselves.