Somewhere In Brooklyn

44 - January 3

Maybe I'm happy right now. Maybe more days like this will come.

But I will never ever open up again. Not to my mom. Not to a psychiatrist. Not to Scott. And not to you. Especially not you.

Don't take this the wrong way but I'd rather save my image in your eyes by not telling you of what happened. Such a selfish and coward thing to do, I know.

You see, the thing is I'm tired of trying to talk. Tired of baring my soul to someone who will never understand my pain. Tired of hearing them say that everything will be okay soon because it won't. It'll never be okay again. It's bullshit.

They say talking helps. That if I open up, I would feel better. And maybe it works for some people. They probably feel the weights on their chest lifting, setting them free from their darkest sins and secrets, as they talk. But that heaviness they are carrying will never go away, it'll just come back to haunt them more together with the feeling of regret and shame of showing vulnerability to a person who will only get tired and leave them eventually.

This is why this journal is my only confidante, it doesn't care if I whine about everything.

Maybe someday, I will learn to trust and bare my soul again to a person, hopefully you. Maybe I'll learn to forgive myself. Maybe someday, I'll forget the past and set myself free.

But till then, I will carry that weight as long as I can.