23

Maybe one day I would be able to write a story about my life. Maybe one day I would put to the world what I didn't tell anyone. I could do this in the form of a story, and then no one could judge or feel sorry for everything I went through. Maybe one day people would know the worst side of the family I had, and understand why I was so dedicated to finding a family that my heart would accept, after everything I had done to get rid of that real family. When that day came, maybe the hole in my chest would disappear. Maybe I didn't need to rely on relationships to suppress fraternal needs.

However, as long as I couldn't establish myself virtually as a writer, I couldn't mentally convince myself that I was one. I still considered myself just a person with too fertile an imagination, dreams beyond what is possible to achieve, and not a writer who had many stories to tell. I wanted to make a difference in people's lives. I didn't know how to do this so far. And I didn't want to create a self