Dear Myself

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Dear Myself,

I know that makes no sense. Dear... Myself? But when I opened the little notebook, my first instinct was to write 'Dear Diary'. Then I remembered that it wasn't, in fact, a diary. According to Therapist, it's a journal. I'm supposed to use it to write down moments that make me feel 'big swells of emotions'. I don't know why they had to phrase it like that. A swell of emotions? Bruises swell. And, when they swell, they're all purple and lumpy and thick with agony. I would know.

Anyways.

Welcome, Myself, to my journal of swelling emotions.

Whatever that's supposed to be.

Dear Myself,

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Dear Myself,

So, first of all, writing beside the bookshelf was an awful idea. The stack of books on the corner of the desk keeps taunting me with its fantastical titles and swooping fonts. So, forgive me, I'm going to leave you be for just a few moments.

Therapist says reading is good. They love letting me discuss my favourite stories.

"As long as you don't always use it for an escape."

When they said that, I had laughed.

What are books, if not escapes?

Silly Therapist. They clearly haven't read Percy Jackson yet.

Dear Myself,

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Dear Myself,

I'm back! And it's only been a few hours!

Therapist was right – emotions do swell. I felt it. It was like the universe was falling away, like I was wearing a shroud of darkness as some sort of black cloak and I had shaken it off for half a breath. For the first time in a long time, I was breathing real air.

It all began when I finished the sixth chapter of the book I had picked up. The young girl in it had fallen in love! This gorgeous man with sweeping golden hair and dark eyes (the author never specified what colour – dark green? Dark blue? Dark purple?) had helped her move her boat onto the lake edge.

Their dialogue! It was almost awkward to read, because she was so shy and he was so flustered. And, in my heart, I felt something unfurl.

I had to look it up. According to Google, it's just brain chemicals – something called the amygdala going hello!

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