I guess everybody has their own thing/ That they yell into a well

Why does everything feel like such a big secret? As if anyone would care.

Maybe that’s the fear. Or maybe they would, and that’s scary too.

I forget that I’m still trying to rebuild confidence – in myself and in others. I need to believe that I can do this, whatever this might be. And I need to rely on others, because you can’t do it alone, whatever it is.

I had my performance review at work, and it went really well. The discrepancy between how I thought I was doing and the actual truth was overwhelming, and still is.

And last night I dreamt that I was trying on an unlikely combination of tops and deciding that I probably looked okay, even though I’ve never worn such outlandish clothing. Even though I couldn’t see that I looked okay. I had to trust what I knew about myself, and about clothing.

I’m trying to do all the right things - the things I know I should be doing, versus the things that feel right in the moment but leave a bad taste. Those activities belong to someone else now, and I have to walk the line of this new way.

In nearly two months, I’ve had exactly one glass of wine, which I drank with dinner. I don’t do things in moderation so I guess I’m immoderately sober now. I never say what occurs to me either, hardly ever. Half that stuff doesn’t matter anyway. And you have to pick your moments, for the rest.

What is this? I’m not writing a treatise. I don’t know how others go about their lives, even though I try to imagine it sometimes. This isn’t for you out there somewhere. This is for me in here. Right here.