I keep writing about him. I’m not really sure why – I mean, yeah, he lets me, so that’s nice. But as my insecurities like relentless curs keep nipping at my heels, that sadistic feminist demon keeps asking me: do you really want to be writing about this as much as you do? Because what if it ends horribly, and then you have to burn all of this writing because it hurts too much to remember how much you loved someone who caused you pain?
Man, fuck that. Being a strong, independent woman is cool and all, but sometimes it comes with all these unnecessary insecurities attached to it. And I’m not really the type of person who lives life afraid of future regrets. If the regrets happen, they happen. Come what may. I make these decisions in the smartest way I know how, and by that I mean that I commit to what I do because why would I do something if my heart’s not in it? My heart is in this, and I happen to think that my using my heart and celebrating it is a pretty noble undertaking.
Yes, he’s going to hurt me. Everybody hurts me sooner or later. I’ve accepted that. Even if all of my life turns out to be a mistake, at least I’ll have a better way of learning from my mistakes, and hopefully you will, too.
Or, basically, I’m not scared.
No – that’s a lie. I’m incredibly scared. I’m just not dumb enough to let my own fears stop me. I’d rather perish in the flames of my own creation than die quietly and alone with no real consequence.