It feels strange to be here, like walking into the room that used to be mine as a child and finding things I had forgotten I left behind. Why didn’t I throw them all away before leaving? Why did my parents keep them? Why is this blog still here?
I am so deeply depressed that none of this feels real. None of these words are mine. I cannot write myself a better life. I never could. What was I thinking? Who was I pretending to be when I believed that these little rhymes mattered? My family tried to warn me by their detachment. They’ve always known my treasures are worthless. I let them sit forgotten, gathering dust, waiting for me to return.
It’s too much to process. I’m not up to making big decisions today, so I’ll back away and close the door again. I’ll clean this up some other time.