By week 3 of “Good Morning Bushwick”, I felt like I was falling apart. The same clothes I wore on camera, day in and day out, only reinforced the reality of my financial struggles. No matter how hard I tried to keep it at bay, my poverty was always lurking in the back of my mind. My meager earnings quickly evaporated, spent on the alcohol that had become my crutch. My dependency on it had reached new heights, dwarfing even the darkest years before. My family gathered at the hospital, huddled together in our pain. We prayed. We prayed for Angie, and we prayed for ourselves. Angie was the glue that held our family together, and without her, we feared we might crumble. She had always been there for me, supporting me through the toughest times and bailing me out of countless predicaments. But now, when she needed me most, I found myself utterly powerless. My frustration grew, and a bitter resentment took root within me. I began to blame the world for my failures, for not being the success I believed I deserved. “It’s everyone else’s fault. They did this to me.” I refused to accept any responsibility for my situation, creating a narrative in my mind that painted me as the victim, and everyone else as the villain. “Angie wouldn’t be in this fucking hospital if I had been rich and famous.” The more I tried to look up, the darker the cloud above me seemed. One night, after leaving the hospital, I stumbled through the streets, drunk and lost in my thoughts. The pavement beneath me seemed to sway and shift, making it difficult to maintain my balance. The cold air bit into my skin, but I barely noticed. My mind was consumed with anger and self-pity, a whirlwind of emotions that threatened to tear me apart. I thought of Angie, lying in her hospital bed, her once-vibrant spirit now a mere flicker. The injustice of it all gnawed at my heart, and I couldn’t help but wonder if I would ever find a way out of this darkness. But for now, I simply walked, guided by the dim glow of the streetlights, as the shadows of my past and present clung to me like a second skin. My eyes, blurred by alcohol and tears, focused on the cracked pavement beneath my feet. Step by step, I inched my way forward, the memories of Angie’s laughter and her unwavering faith in me echoing in my ears. With each step, I searched for the strength to rise above my demons, to become the person she believed I could be.

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