That's not true. I've been doing it longer than that.
I once was able to openly emote without much of a single inhibition. I would bleed everything out all over anyone who would listen, any page that dared to be blank, on everything I touched and everywhere I went.
Somewhere along this twisted path of my life, I've lost that.
That's not true, either.
I've squashed it down because emotions have done nothing but get me in trouble, complicate story lines, make me regret. I still feel it all, bubbling underneath my surface, but I am so much more stoic now, so much more reserved because that's what happens when you have to be the strong one, the stable one, when none of these things are in your nature and yet, and yet.
I look back at my old blog posts and I am moved by how freely the words came, how crystalline the feelings were so that I could pick them up and feel them over and unpack them and move on.
I don't even talk to my therapist like that.
That's not entirely true. I do sometimes. But not often, because I'm afraid that once I let it all out, I won't be able to reel it back in again.
So when I remembered the songs I'd forgotten about, the ones that made me cry not for lost love or shattered dreams or anything as melodramatic as that, but for the memory of a tiny, scared little cat and my childhood best friend, I allowed myself to try and listen to them again, to see if I could feel again.
I rocked back and forth in my uncomfortable desk chair, clutching my own chest as my earphones locked me into a one-woman musically-fueled mini breakdown.
And I felt a little bit of that wall crumble.
I felt a little bit more like myself.