elizabeth: woman sitting next to a window in jeans and bare feet (quiet)
It's the end of the academic year, and this is the first one in...ever, maybe, certainly in undergrad, during which I have felt more-happy-than-not, as a general rule. And I'm having a surprisingly hard time.

(I figured something out recently, which is kind of related to the previous remark: I was originally traumatized at age six-and-onward, I repressed that trauma hard and pretty successfully until I was sixteen, I spent sixteen and seventeen absolutely overjoyed at having acknowledged that I was angry and traumatized, and then almost simultaneously with, although not because of, my eighteenth birthday, started actually experiencing the trauma for the first time, and did not have an emotional vocabulary or any coping mechanisms to handle it. Other than repression. Which was no longer a viable option. And now I am twenty-four, and it is only in the last year, maybe two, that I have started to be able to feel my actual, you know, feelings.)

People are moving out of the apartment we have shared this year. My stuff is all in storage and at my temp apartment. I'm feeling a little numb, and a little scared, and a little lonely; I have no full-time job prospects (my summer internship is short on hours and new experiences), and I will be the only one in the apartment tonight, and I know I'm sad about losing this experience that has been hard and rewarding in roughly equal measure, but I'm having trouble accessing it. It feels distant and unreal.

I'm used to pain, grief, sorrow, all of that, being present and physical and undeniable. This is weird. I keep saying out loud to myself (in the bathroom, mostly, because I have some dignity, no really): it is okay to feel sad. it is okay to be upset. I don't think I believe myself.
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