I feel compelled to write here again. I can’t remember why I stopped in the first place. At some point I must have decided that my tiny private Moleskines were more suitable for musings on love and anger and heartbreak and that was that. Maybe it was the guilt I felt from exposing my personal life so violently and burdening everyone who happened to read it. Maybe it was from imagining what this sort of thing would look like in real life. Would I walk on stage in front of an equivalent audience and announce into a microphone the intimate details of my current relationship or my thoughts on how certain parts of my upbringing must have resulted in xyz deficiencies in my adult life? Probably not, but that is what I have been doing on the Internet for most of my adolescent life, and something about writing here is cathartic. It feels like a righteous form of self-sabotage.
I am here because I no longer feel that I understand myself. I have always felt a disconnect between the virtue that I feel in my heart and the hard exterior I present to the world. Whenever anyone tells me they think I am good, my gut reaction is always guilt. I have never had the courage to convince anyone that I am good. But there is something else now. Something is scrambling my thoughts. I am picking fights with those I love. All the pieces are falling out of place and crumbling in my hands. I desperately long to understand.
