It's 4am. Don't Read This.

In case that wasn't enough of a warning, this thing is a very personal, rambling beast.

I've put as heavy a lid as I can on this. I have been trying to shut this down for literally over a year. And yet, here I am, awake and going crazy at 4am, going over the stupid little details and crying like an idiot. I can't sleep. And I am so sick of doing this, constantly looking back, constantly wanting to see what was never there. Even though I am trying so hard to repress it.

Right now, I don't care that I'm usually able to shut this down when some insignifcant detail brings it to mind. I don't congratulate myself on that. Because the truth is EVERYTHING brings it to mind. Everything. I may shut down that first response, that first association, but ten to twenty minutes later, another insignificant detail brings him to my mind, another association, another wonderful, horrible reminder. No matter how many times I shut my response down, he's constantly springing straight to the front of my mind. An everyday phrase, a tone, a color, a song, a million small details. I wrote too much of it down, associated too many things with him, and now, I won't ever be able to forget. Which was the point of writing it all down, at the time. They are an awful reminder and it makes me feel a million times worse whenever I masochistically bite the bullet and open up my old journal. As if I don't already feel like crap, a college graduate living at home, working in a laundry facility, no drive, no direction, no fire, no friends close by. I don't feel like myself anymore. I feel like a ghost mixed with this fake persona I'm trying to emit. I'm shut down. Time stopped when I left.

I don't often read my journals anymore. Maybe once or twice a month. Sometimes, like tonight, a small memory will cross my mind, so delicate and sweet, completely disassociated from the whole picture, and I feel warm and so happy, as if it had just happened yesterday. I forget all the awful crap that did happen, caught up in the wondrous glory of that small, brief moment of certainty that made me and still makes me feel like I am in heaven, and I plunge over to my bookcase and pull out the right journal. And then, then, I come across all that contradicts that joy. And I remember how I got here.

I'm feeling horribly lost right now and, if I let myself truly feel this other loss, every day hurts. I shut the facts out, don't acknowledge all the things I can't bear to dwell on, but if I let myself feel it, god, it hurts. And yet, ironically, those entries are the greatest proof, the greatest truth I ever lived. What happened during the past two years truly was small, so insignificant and static, and, obviously, one-sided, yet it was immense to me.