I once had a horrible time. To deal with this, I began writing little bits of fiction.
Later, my world got better. Then, boom, my ability to write
decided that it wasn't needed any longer. When I woke up one morning,
there was a letter on its pillow saying that it'd gone to live with
somebody who'd pay more attention to its needs. It also called me a
bastard for leaving the toilet seat up, but that's unrelated.
Now, I'm on a quest to get it back. No longer because I hope for
it to take me away from a miserable existence. No longer because I'm in
desperate need of the confidence it used to give me. Instead, I seek it
to fight the boredom which seems ever so overwhelming now.