Hurtful memories

I read through some of my earlier posts yesterday, the perks of being home alone all day. I also get why I don't write stuff when I'm busy - I need to wind down and rest before I can access that part of me, the writing and thinking part. Obviously, work takes up huge amount of my focus and energy (that might be why 1) it's called work and 2) I get paid to do it...).

I had assumed I wouldn't have been writing all that much during 2012, the year I got sick and exhausted. But I did actually, I think that might have been the year I wrote most frequently. And I think it's all there, hidden between the lines. I didn't see what was going on, I didn't yet know what was coming. But I knew I was suffering and I was working so hard to get by, to solve problems, to make things work. Now, in hind sight, I can almost feel the desperation and the self blame radiating off the computer when I read the entries.

I started to cry when I'd gotten to around March or something, and stopped reading. Honestly, I don't want to know. At least not right now, not yet. I'm sure I'll be glad to have it written down in the future. For now, it still hurts.