A few days ago, I cleaned my room. And no, that's not what this post is about. I ended up finding a lot of things and putting them in their proper places. Today, I found an additional magazine that I meant to put in with my collection of its brothers. When I put it away, I found a little notebook with a red cover: my journal from four years ago. It only covered a few months (Feb-May 2008).
Resolving to amuse myself by my own wit and cleverness, I began reading. I learned very quickly that my sophomore year was something that my brain had been hard at work suppressing. There was darkness in my life then that I'd since forgotten about. On seven separate dates I'd promised my journal I'd be dead before the year finished out. Three of them were illustrated. On two pages (also illustrated), I was killing my former friends. Those weren't what scared me, though. No. What scared me (and continues to scare me) is that I don't read it and say, "What a naive, pretentious douchebag I was." I read it and feel that my past self was reasonable in everything he wrote in that book. I'm filled with the same feelings I had then. I suddenly remember being abandoned. Replaced, even. I've written about a lot of this in another post.
If you read that post, I think you'll agree that it was being mild, compared to what I found today to be the truth. Extremely mild. Even I didn't know about the horror I felt then. I knew of the depression, and loneliness, but my brain was in the process of burying all of the violence I wanted to unleash.
Now, my question for anyone who reads this: Have I been healing without realizing it, or have I just been shoving it away? Should I confront these feelings or move away from them? If I do move away, will they follow me, or will I arrive in a place of light that will provide no haven for such feelings?
No comments:
Post a Comment