(no subject)
It's so easy to think you're all alone. I think it's actually easier to say, "No one cares about me or how I'm feeling!" than to actually deal with the situation and do the work to make it better.
I don't want to say I "stumbled" across this journal or my other one, because the truth is that I actively sought it out. I did actually stumble across my old journal from 8th-10th grade (an actual hardcopy), but that's another story.
It's easy to rewrite history when there's no record of how things really happened. Granted, a personal account is not necessarily the most accurate source of information, but it's still better than nothing. I remember being sad and angsty a lot of the time. I remember feeling like I didn't fit in, or like people didn't really care about me or my feelings. Then I read this journal... and I want to go back in time and slap myself.
I not only had friends; I was loved. I was listened to. I was cared for. No matter how sad or depressing I was, I still had people telling me it was all going to be okay. Even when I said overly dramatic things like, "someone catch me" or "I can sense there's something wrong," I still had the same friends the next day. Maybe it's just that we were ALL a little dramatic, but I like to think it was their compassion that kept them around.
It's easy to think you're all alone.
It's hard to say, "Thank you for loving me, even when I didn't love myself."
Thank you for loving me, even when I didn't love myself.
I don't want to say I "stumbled" across this journal or my other one, because the truth is that I actively sought it out. I did actually stumble across my old journal from 8th-10th grade (an actual hardcopy), but that's another story.
It's easy to rewrite history when there's no record of how things really happened. Granted, a personal account is not necessarily the most accurate source of information, but it's still better than nothing. I remember being sad and angsty a lot of the time. I remember feeling like I didn't fit in, or like people didn't really care about me or my feelings. Then I read this journal... and I want to go back in time and slap myself.
I not only had friends; I was loved. I was listened to. I was cared for. No matter how sad or depressing I was, I still had people telling me it was all going to be okay. Even when I said overly dramatic things like, "someone catch me" or "I can sense there's something wrong," I still had the same friends the next day. Maybe it's just that we were ALL a little dramatic, but I like to think it was their compassion that kept them around.
It's easy to think you're all alone.
It's hard to say, "Thank you for loving me, even when I didn't love myself."
Thank you for loving me, even when I didn't love myself.