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.

Already I miss yesterday, when I didn’t think of the oddities affecting me now. My life – exciting? In a way. It’s the depth I’ve always wanted to achieve. I’m a heart-renching counselor; perhaps a bartender of sorts. I have no problems, I am not allowed them. Do they know? Do they suspect? I must be the most narcissistic bastard around. Sometimes, I have trouble doing what I want to, when it comes to emotions. I’m fucked up too. But I keep it quiet – most times.

That’s the problem with being willing to be someone’s emotional sounding board. Eventually you’re going to find yourself wanting to share your own inner turmoil. Actually, that’s not a problem for most, just for a person like me who hates talking about themselves, and tries too hard to put up an invulnerable exterior.