Damaged, at best.

I just realized why it is so hard for me to keep a journal. It's because I don't really ever let myself feel how I feel, if that makes sense. I can be devastatingly sad, and I'll push it to the back and rationalize myself out of the feeling. Writing down acknowledges that it exists somewhere outside my mind. When it is sitting there in front of me on the page, I can't ignore it...or pretend it will go away if I just close my eyes for a minute.

I smell horribly of smoke. Because tonight I decided it was time. I got the binder out of my drawer and I pulled out the letters from their clear plastic pages. And I read alot of things I consider lies. And I took them over to the stove. And turned on the top burner. And burned each and every one of them. There were a lot. The house got filled with smoke. So I took it outside. And watched the flames.

See, even right now it is so hard for me to just sit here and discuss my feelings. I keep going on facebook and randomly clicking through pictures of people I don't even know. It is mindless. Because I get so scared to feel.

The truth is, it was really hard for me to burn that. It still hurts me deep inside somewhere that everything we had planned never worked out. I get upset that sometimes I still think about it and I shouldn't. And for some reason keeping that stupid binder of those letters made me have hope? I don't even know if hope is the right word.

I am so skeptical about it all.
But I am always the one who keeps it all together and never lets anything phase me. I think it's okay to be human once in a while.

Snails see the benefit/the beauty in every inch - The Format
This is perhaps the reason I rev my life up to 90 miles per hour. I never see the beauty in it all. And I never have to feel badly about it, after it has happened.