I realize that I’m an inconsistent participant in my own life.

I constantly agonize about the fact that I’m a bad mother, or horrible supervisor, unserious citizen, lame daughter – I’m my worst critic.

I struggle with the day-to-day; I barely feel alive. I don’t know if its the age I’m at, the medications I’m on, the brain chemistry, the alcohol use. I’m an adult. At what point do you determine you are living?