nineteen
I turned nineteen. My friends bought me cake and flowers and none of them made fun of me for being old. I read back a few pages of one of my old journals.
I think the reason why I don’t write as much anymore is because the existential pain that paralysed me for years has lifted like a fog.
I started feeling bad when I was fifteen and if you were to have told me that it would take this long to feel happy again I don’t think I would’ve coped. But it doesn’t matter, in any case, because I’m here now and anyways I always found a way of making myself believe that something or someone was going to save me soon.
I think that if I were to start writing more, there would be less angst and less anger. It’s not that my writing back then was ugly. But it was saturated with pain.
I’m happy now.