Run Fave Run
In 2004, I was working for a radio station in Southwest Georgia. I hosted a weekly open-mic showcase that attracted 150-200 people on a Monday night. When I wasn't writing commercials or on-stage, I was producing music for an indie record label. I also played keyboard in a jazz/soul band as well as a local church.
I lived in a huge 2BR flat and would often have impromptu cookouts with 50 of my closest friends. I could turn on the radio and hear my songs and/or commercials. My nights were filled with music, smiling faces and random, comedic moments at the Waffle House.
And I was extremely unhappy.
No one knew how I scraped up money out of my truck's ashtray to pay my rent or that my vehicle stayed on the brink of repossession every month. I never talked about the three months of constant nightmares where I'd wake up and see my casket at the foot of my bed. Despite the adoration and attention, I loathed all the superficial dating exploits because I preferred to be a husband…yet I never let anyone past the persona of my talents.
While the community embraced the energy I brought to it, no one knew that my presence in this small town was the result of a failed engagement that had me driving aimlessly through the state until I stopped for gas across the street from a radio station where the manager was filling up and liked the way I spoke.
On the outside, I was living life on my own terms when the reality was I was simply existing - a reckless alternative to walking in my purpose. During that time, my father asked me what I was running from and I didn't have the heart to tell him "myself."
