Take A Bow

I have many memories. Some are blank, confusing, disappointing, weird, incredible, foggy and absolute.
I have an incredibly tedious life. The same tasks are done continuously. And, because of this, I've always wanted freedom. But the idea also frightens me.

I can go back and try to fix everything. But I know that if I tried, I wouldn't be the person I am today. There would be too many things to fix anyway. For me, there's never been a perfect, but I tried to get as close as I could. I know that I was never ever satisfied with anything. I hated myself because of this.

My memories aren't all filled with hate. But they do cover the depressing moments of my life. I remember them the clearest. Funny how the brain works.

Sometimes I read over my diary entries, and I wonder, how could I have written something like that? Something so petty? Something so... real? My diary was filled with sentences of this person and that person. What made me angry, and what made me hate myself. It was filled with grief and mentions of death. There was the occasional happy entry, but the cause for it was small and trivial. I hate reading over my diary. It makes me cringe and hate myself even more.

I had stopped writing in my diary when I found out my brothers had read through some entries. I was shocked. Disappointed. Hateful. Angry. Bitter.
I stopped writing out what I felt. And because of that, I started to bottle all my feelings up. Just like last time.
Only this time, it was more destructive. This time, I couldn't deal with my problems.