shame for a public diary

i'm uncomfortable as fuck knowing that there are readers of this blog who personally know me. while i believe they are kind people, my inner critic imagines them bashing the fuck out of my writing.

duh, it's not hard to find. my username has always been the same since the early 2000s - way before the term "social media" was even coined. i am that fucking ancient.

i check this blog's analytics, see where the readers are coming from, what devices they're using, and most importantly - what entries are they reading. and when i re-read entries from years past, i get the urge to travel back in time and choke the fuck out of my past self.

the vast majority of my writing here has been meandering. i'm the least bit proud to be associated with such writing. yeah sure, it's me. genuine about depression. genuine about insecurities. but my fucking god, that's why i don't actually open up to friends because this is where i dump my shit so i face the world composed.

but shame is a necessary evil. without the messy writing, i wouldn't have earned this clarity i carry and the substance i share.

speaking of substances, there's one good thing i've been noticing. after having done mushrooms, i've been writing about love more often. definitely, the depression still comes and goes, my insecurities are still threatening. but now they don't fully consume me. all these negative things are mere parts of me, sharing the same space as love.

just like how i hold space for both disdain and tenderness for myself.

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