For the past few days, I’d been suffering from–what I call–Writer’s Depression.
I got to a point that I no longer know what I want with my life.
That I was no longer sure if I should pursue on this writing path I’m in.
My real profession is also in vain.
I felt so pathetic and helpless.
I felt so useless even to my family.
That what I earn is never enough for my family.
That I thought of leaving this world for good.
I wished to sleep forever.
But I fought it.
I know those thoughts were not true.
A lot of people cares about me.
I’m in a plateau state of my current profession.
My writing career is only about to start, after I finished polishing this manuscript I’m working on.
Suicide is not an option.
I told myself:
I’m a fighter. I’m not giving up on this. I’ve been on this writing world for 9 long years and I can’t just stop now.
I’m still young. I have a long way to go. There are still a lot of people in this world who likes to read like me.