I am from the bittersweet love of insanity, jagged holes stitched across walls, kitchen cabinets rudely torn off their hinges, doors which lay in splintered pieces, and cans of Coors light that were braced within my father’s hand.

I am from my internally scared home on the pleasant street named Pecan, a relatively small town in Southwestern Illinois, and neighbors close by that never seemed to acknowledge the highly audible nightly brawls.

I am from a strong mother’s unconventional love, prevailing thoughts of doing something great, and my long mentally written chapter that went many years unread by most people.

I am from successful attempts to make my life in public school unbearable, friends that either were swept into the luxury of popularity only to drift away from our relationship or had became closer through similar burdens, teases and taunts heard almost daily, dozens of rumors formed from personal issues that had spread like wildfire, and the controversial lie of: “Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me.”

I am from a once thriving local family business that currently sits vacant in sight of a state highway, clusters of tires that were intentionally placed all about the dusty concrete floor, the screeches or drones caused by various machinery beneath the aluminum roofing, and the familiar faces or traveling strangers that had walked through that heavy white door adjacent to our little office.

I am from growing creativity, drawings scattered upon my desk in a helter-skelter manner, and an ever changing life. I am from the most graceful tool of strength that God blessed us with—faith.