I have been writing in a journal on an almost-daily basis since I was 17 years old. This is a record of me going through each entry from the beginning, and commenting on the me from fifteen years ago.

Now I know why I don’t go there. It’s only a worsening mood that presses harder on my soul the longer that I stay. I can’t understand until I’ve been there, but I do not want to go. Let them, the world, be the way they are. I’m keeping myself busy looking for the truth of it all.

Not sure where “there” is in this, but my guess is it’s my Dad’s house. There was a real tension between us for a long time, and I only visited him out of a sense of obligation. Now I’m glad I put in all those difficult visits. Somehow, over time, we worked through it.