I remember the day. A girl in my regular chatroom said that she had a journal online. I had never heard of such a thing. She convinced me to sign up for a journal of my own. Almost immediately after creating my account and posting my first entry, I received comments and words of welcome from complete strangers. I was hooked.
Over the next few years, I grew an expansive base of readers, fans, and friends through blogging communities and personal websites. I reached 60,000 hits a month. My life revolved around my perceived pseudo-fame in a virtual reality. Nothing was off-limits. I exposed myself and provoked others, I ranted and raved, I destroyed all conception that I could hold anything sacred. The only thing sacred was brutal transparency. I had pledged my allegiance to full disclosure, no matter who got hurt along the way.
I sobered up two years ago come February. In that time, I have resisted returning to the blogosphere. I feared disseminating information that might come back to haunt me, as it so often has. But now, here I am.
As I have continually searched for the discovery of my life's purpose, I've found myself at the same conclusion: it is to share my experience, strength, and hope with others. I can no longer hoard my thoughts and feelings, my perceptions and insights, my ambitions and fears. They are forcing themselves against the perimeter, pushing toward their release.
My story is not for me.
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