Truth
Sigh.
The truth is that this journal was meant to be private. I meant to set it as such. It wasn't meant to hurt anybody. It wasn't meant to hurt the company. All it was was a way to vent. Much of the venting happened late at night, on Tuesdays, or when I was drunk.
There isn't anything I can do. The damage is done. I'm privatize the entries one-by-one. I remake my promise to stop drinking, which I already pledged to do once I moved. Because I hurt people I cared about through my carelessness.
I have a lot of emotions rolling inside me all the time. And I pushed everything I had that I didn't want to express into this journal: anger, jealosy, frustration, depression, lust, everything. It didn't need to be a.p. style or clean or even true. It just had to be an outlet for all the emotions I didn't want anyone to know about it, sometimes subconscious ones. Once I wrote, the feelings were gone. It was exorcism. I don't even remember what I wrote. I'm having to read everything just to remember who to apologize to. If I wrote about a half-remembered incident in a way I wished or feared would happen, I could stop worrying and thinking about it.
I have two people inside me - a bitter, sarcastic hag and a kind, caring person. Ninety percent of the time, I'm the latter. Ten percent of the time, I'm the former. To keep that ten percent under control, I wrote. I thought nobody else could see save for, of course, a few friends and family who know my penchant for melodrama and ignore it. While you got this all at once, please remember that it was drips and drabs of frustration over a hard year of entering the "real world."
Much of it was unjustified. None of meant was meant to harm. But good intentions pave the way to hell, and my intentions were less than stellar. They were just to---well I can't explain it any better.
The truth is that this journal was meant to be private. I meant to set it as such. It wasn't meant to hurt anybody. It wasn't meant to hurt the company. All it was was a way to vent. Much of the venting happened late at night, on Tuesdays, or when I was drunk.
There isn't anything I can do. The damage is done. I'm privatize the entries one-by-one. I remake my promise to stop drinking, which I already pledged to do once I moved. Because I hurt people I cared about through my carelessness.
I have a lot of emotions rolling inside me all the time. And I pushed everything I had that I didn't want to express into this journal: anger, jealosy, frustration, depression, lust, everything. It didn't need to be a.p. style or clean or even true. It just had to be an outlet for all the emotions I didn't want anyone to know about it, sometimes subconscious ones. Once I wrote, the feelings were gone. It was exorcism. I don't even remember what I wrote. I'm having to read everything just to remember who to apologize to. If I wrote about a half-remembered incident in a way I wished or feared would happen, I could stop worrying and thinking about it.
I have two people inside me - a bitter, sarcastic hag and a kind, caring person. Ninety percent of the time, I'm the latter. Ten percent of the time, I'm the former. To keep that ten percent under control, I wrote. I thought nobody else could see save for, of course, a few friends and family who know my penchant for melodrama and ignore it. While you got this all at once, please remember that it was drips and drabs of frustration over a hard year of entering the "real world."
Much of it was unjustified. None of meant was meant to harm. But good intentions pave the way to hell, and my intentions were less than stellar. They were just to---well I can't explain it any better.