I looked back to what I wrote in November 2018. As usual, I was sad over a boy. I honestly don't remember who it was about. 2018 felt like years ago, and that feeling is something I don't remember anymore. But I assume that when I wrote it, I felt the weight of the world. "Would I go back to you? If I spend too much time in the thoughts of the times we spent together, maybe I would. Would I want to? I'm not so sure." Like, okay? Who hurt me this bad? It's so funny to read back on it. Not just this, but every painful feeling I had before this, especially the ones I don't remember. When people say, "this too shall pass," I guess they were right. It passed, but my God, did it hurt. But I got over the hurt. I'm not exactly hurt at the moment. I don't know what I am right now, but this too shall pass, right?

I guess I found one difference between me now and the old me. Looking back at my old entries, I was constantly blaming myself. Constantly. For loving too much, when emoting the slightest emotion, for being valid, for just existing, I felt the need to blame myself. And reading it now makes me feel so, so sorry for her. All that apologizing was so unnecessary, and to be frank, those I apologized to deserved no such thing.

I'm not saying now I am unaware of the things I'm clearly in the wrong for, but I know what I'm allowed to feel. I'm allowed to love loudly and cry when I want to. I'm allowed to be offended. I'm allowed to feel things, goddammit.

In the past, I carried the weight of the world on my shoulders, as if every misstep, every stumble, was entirely my fault. I would internalize the pain, the hurt, and convince myself that it was my inadequacy that caused it all. I'd weave a web of self-blame, entangling my heart in a never-ending cycle of remorse.

But now, I see things differently. I've come to understand that I am not responsible for the actions and emotions of others. I am not the sole architect of my own happiness or anyone else's. I have learned that my existence alone is not a burden or a problem to be solved.

It's liberating, this newfound realization. It's as if a veil has been lifted, revealing a world where my emotions are valid, where I am allowed to take up space and express myself authentically. I no longer need to apologize for my tears or my laughter, for the depth of my love or the strength of my convictions.

I can love fiercely, passionately, without restraint. I can feel joy and sadness, anger and excitement, without the suffocating weight of guilt pressing down on me. I can speak my mind and stand my ground, unapologetically. I can be unapologetically me.

It's a gradual process, shedding the layers of self-blame and learning to embrace my own worth. But with each passing day, I grow stronger in my conviction that I am allowed to be human, with all the messy, beautiful emotions that come with it.

So, to the old me, I say this: I'm sorry for the unnecessary apologies. I'm sorry for shouldering the blame that was never mine to bear. But I'm grateful for the journey, for the lessons learned along the way. And now, I stand here, unburdened by the need to blame myself, ready to embrace life with open arms and an open heart.

For I know that I am deserving of love, of happiness, of every emotion that courses through my veins. And from this day forward, I will live boldly, unafraid to feel, unafraid to be me.

I am awake. Tired, sleepy, and in pain—physically and mentally. The weight of my emotions crashes over me like a relentless wave, threatening to drag me under. If I focus, if I listen closely, I can almost hear the sound of my blood coursing through my veins, a frantic symphony of life desperately trying to keep me afloat. That's where I am now. Struggling to hold myself together, to cling to the fragile thread of sanity that keeps me going. My heart beats too fast, a wild drumroll of anxiety that I hadn't even realized until now.

What am I so worried about? Perhaps it's the knowledge that next week, I won't find solace in the familiar embrace of my own home. Or maybe it's the overwhelming realization that I have a mountain of tasks to conquer, each one demanding my attention, yet I find myself immobilized, unable to take even the smallest step forward. And then there's the sickening ache of missing those I haven't even parted with yet, a pang of longing that tugs at my heartstrings, threatening to unravel me before I've even begun.

But there's something else too—a discovery of an unfamiliar emotion that has taken root within me. It's something I never thought I would feel, never anticipated, and now I am too terrified to admit it even to myself. Its presence unsettles me, shaking the foundations of who I thought I was. Yet, I can't deny its existence, nor the power it holds over me.

"I will be okay, I will be okay," I unconsciously whisper to myself, like a mantra in the quiet moments. And it's true, I am okay, at least sometimes. Mostly during the daylight hours when distractions cloak my unease. Or when exhaustion engulfs me, and the comforting oblivion of sleep becomes my sanctuary. But there are certain hours when I just can't bear it anymore, when the weight becomes unbearable and threatens to consume me entirely.

I've heard stories of spontaneous human combustion, the sudden eruption of one's body into flames. It sounds absurd, fantastical even, but in moments like these, it feels strangely plausible. The intensity of my emotions, the overwhelming pressure building inside, it feels as if I could combust at any given moment. And yet, here I am, still holding on, still fighting the inferno raging within.

a revised version of what I wrote

I STARTED TO LOVE