I suppose we do what we do for many reasons. Like when I was four years old and I tried to cut my own hair. I wanted to look pretty, and the scissors were right there within the reach of the short arms of my four-year old self. There was a reason that I stole that girl's doll when I was eight years old. The one with the blonde hair, and rosy cheeks , because I wanted it. There too was a reason I put it back; because stealing it bad. Or how about that time in eighth grade when I called that girl with the braces and frizzy hair, who's jeans were maybe a size to small, ugly and fat. I didn't know her, she may have been a nice person with big dreams, or she may have been the biggest bitch, but I;d never gotten to understand her because of the judgments I was quick to make. I believe now that I said those words because I was trying to feel better about myself, so I put her down instead of improving myself in ways that may have made me a better person. Perhaps, when I decided to get drunk enough to pass out that one night, some time in March. I don't have much to elaborate on because I don't remember it much. That was because I wanted to forget. What about that boy I chose to have sex with for the first time on that cold December night. Maybe I wanted to feel something other than the pain I've grown to understand, for too long of a time. Everything I've ever accomplished or demolished, or thrived upon, or put down, was for a reason. All the choices I made, and even the one's I didn't stood upon a pile of reasons explaining why things turned out the way they did.
I leave this now, so that when people try to understand why I put that gun to my head, or that rope around my neck, before pushing myself off the wooden stool, that I had my reasons.
