For everyone who wondered why I never post anything that isn't superfical

I have recently invested quite a lot of time in typing up old diaries (from summer ’92 up until March ’98), for what reason I am unsure at the moment, except perhaps in case anything should happen to the paper versions. In places, this has forced me to look back over more than a few times that I would otherwise most likely have left alone. Now that I am essentially in a happy place, I seem to be in a position where I can accept that I have actually had a fair amount of pain thrown my way. I have mostly been of the opinion that nothing has ever really been that bad; that I over-reacted many times, but as I look back now, I think to myself, ‘no, I really have been quite fucked over, haven’t I?’ And it is making me so fragile today. The slightest thing feels like a knife in the guts. And I’m still thinking, ‘why should I cry? I’d just be indulging myself.’

Don’t misconstrue; there’s nothing wrong now. I’m just discovering that there is still pain where I thought I had healed. Why does it hurt so much to discover that people you thought of as part of you don’t feel the same at all? Am I tragic for thinking ‘How Beautiful you are’ by the Cure is so true?