Six years of a troubled mind

I say. There is a slight danger in writing down your life events as they happen to you. Apparently no amount of time and growth can truly disconnect you from the fear, shame and hopelessness you have once felt. Even when time dulls the pain, of it can still make you sick to your stomach. Or at least it can for me.

I've made it my mission to finally finish up my current journal. Due to irregular entry schedules and the size of the book, I've been writing in it for six years. With coming to an end I feel compelled to peruse some of the earlier entries. This book started in some of the darkest times of my life so far. All the evidence I'd ever need to display how truly lost I was and, to an extent, still am is there. The lowest of my lows. My terrible decisions that I wrote down as a way of relieving my mind. All of it is there.

I know that it felt right when I wrote it. I know that it isn't a over-exaggeration of my feelings. Reading it back now scares me a bit. While I didn't do any self-harm, I still wish that someone had seen this and helped. Obviously I got through and am not doing so badly anymore.

It just upsets me that I can read it back and still feel so small.

When I finish this journal I'll keep it where I can find it. I know that there is only up from where I was. If I ever need reminding I can simply ask myself if things are as bad as that journal.