You know, there's something poetic about all this. Being alive at all, I mean. Everything that's happened. Maybe it'd break a lot of people. Maybe it broke me multiple times. But I'm still here- I remember, I remember way too much, and it hurts sometimes, but I guess remembering is better than forgetting it all. Two bad options. You can't love without hurting, etc. You'll be 15 days sober in a few hours. Longest since you started smoking, or doing marijauna at all, really. Isn't that amazing? I mean- the shift. I love how marijuana makes me feel a lot of the time, but I was getting too reliant on it. I was- well, I'm scarred, beaten, and bruised, and I was using it as a cushion. Penjamin like a pacifier, you know? Maybe that isn't entirely a bad thing, but I came to the conclusion that I wanted something different. Something more than that. Maybe not more, but different, at least. Your journal is full of misery, drenched in blood, tears, no other bodily fluids cuz that'd be proper gross, but that's a good metaphor. Pages drenched in blood. tears would make more sense, if only I could cry regularly. The one letter you kept from your dad, there's a tear stain I can still see from years ago. It's incredible, sentimental. People will kill you if you let them. People have killed me a thousand times over.