Since I was 13-14-ish, I’ve had this [obnoxiously, melodramatically] tormented relationship with the Past. Ohmygod, it was excruciatingly time-consuming and all-encompassing and just freaking exhausting. First, I started getting embarrassed about who I was and kicking myself for my mistakes from when I was just starting out in adolescence, which eventually turned into drinking a lot to blot out the mistakes and awfulness of the Past, which resulted in me making even dumber mistakes and building an even worse life/name for myself that I tried to blot out. (ugh. Redundant.) And THEN I had this weird obsession with people from my past where I tried to analyze every single relationship (platonic and otherwise) and every single conversation within them until it didn’t even exist anymore (name that mid-90’s teen drama quote!) and pore over what happened and what it all meant all the fucking time for years upon years after it ceased to matter. Any time my mind started to wander for even a second, I was never visualizing my life in the future being wonderful or fantasizing about sexual escapades or any of the usual daydream stuff people resort to in their moments of boredom; I was ALWAYS exhuming old situations and relationships and pondering them, poring over theories of what happened and, of course, assaulting myself with regret and the same, painful feelings associated with the hurtful situations over and over. And then when I wasn’t doing that, I was almost forcing it by going back and rereading things I’d written over the years to sort of vicariously relive all of it all over again. AAAaaaauuuuggghhh!!! Gah-ross.

It was easily the worst habit I’ve ever had. And it was an everyday, every hour practice that lasted over a decade. In fact, I don’t even think it was a “habit” so much as a mental lifestyle, considering how much power it had over my every thought and resulting action.

Christ, what a wreck I was.

Anyway, in the slow process of assimilating all my crap into our house from my parents’, I came across 5 different journals I’d kept since 2002. Interested to see what I had to say since such a tumultuous time in my life (2003 was when I attempted suicide), I picked up one of the older ones and started reading. Within 2 minutes, I was DONE. Not that I’d read the whole thing, but all I was seeing was these old feelings and stupid habits I just kept plunging myself into and, without a second thought, I rolled my eyes in dismissal [like I will try not to do when Chloe is whining to me about some stupid boy du jour who's wasting her time with his neediness or general fuckwithery] and flung the book to the side.

Most disgustingly, however, was the oppressively obsessive repetition of the name of my longtime boyfriend that appeared on everysinglepage at least twice and carried with it the same stories of inner struggle to get him to change into a decent person and my blind belief that tolerating all his bullshit would somehow eventually produce my desired partner. (Hint: it didn’t.) Now, reading his name actually didn’t do anything to me emotionally, which was a bit of a shock to me when I realized it later on. Usually when I’m staring a reminder of him in the face, there’s always been a dip in my emotions, a feeling of loss or possession or remorse or longing or something. This time there was nothing. Not excitement or anger or memories or anything. (So, there must be something to this whole “therapy” and “recovery” thing after all!) The reason I stopped reading, actually, was not because I was suddenly experiencing painful memories and corresponding emotions but because I just didn’t give enough of a shit to start.

No, seriously.

I started reading all this trite, struggling, frustrated, cyclical bullshit I did forever and just did not give a fuck. Naturally, I spent about three seconds thinking, “God, what a tremendous waste of time. What a bunch of fruitless, retarded (in the literal sense), unhealthy shit to waste so so many years on.” But instead of spending any time even thinking about that, I didn’t even care enough to rehash the regret. So, not only was I over the whole situation, I apparently am now over being over it.

I wasn’t so analytical about any of this when it happened, actually. In a span of 4-5 minutes, I picked up each of the journals, flipped through, saw that they were laden with carbon copies of the same entry and tossed them into a Dumpster-destined box with nothing but indifference. It wasn’t until Greg picked one up and asked “What are these?” that I realized how much my mentality had changed that I wasn’t poring over them and wading through all of their contents like I automatically would’ve done. Without wasting an ounce of energy, I’d dismissed evidence of my mistakes and didn’t even stop to consider indulging in my old destructive obsessions. Somehow, in the hustle and excitement of progress, I’ve successfully left behind one of my most oppressive habits without even noticing it was gone.

Holy. Fucking. Crap. I never ever thought my mind was capable of functioning without regret and remorse as a prerequisite. And now it just is, without me having to exert any effort to make it happen.

Am I allowed to push humility aside to be a teensy bit proud of myself for even a half-second?