When I love, I love hard. I think that’s where my problem lies. For years, I’ve tried to decode myself, to try to understand my own being on not just the simplest of terms but on my own–definitions, borders, limits generated by myself. I think I am getting there–getting to the point of comprehending my own strengths and imperfections, all of which make me who I am. I hope that I can accept them, whatever they may be. I hope that I can look towards others who have the qualities I crave and lean to them for inspiration to create those characteristics within me. I always loved growth. Knowing that life is but a process, that life is always about evolution of character reminds me that there is hope, that there is no end if I ignore the obstacles that lead me to believe in limits. I will grow and continue to make myself better.

I will be better. This has always been my goal, whether or not I acknowledge it.

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I’m devastated, that although I’m back in a place I consider my roots, I feel as if I have just been uprooted. I want so much to blame someone, something, some stupid unfortunate event to which I can channel my anger and disappointment. But the more I dwell, the more I realize that this was all my doing, whether or not I realized it at the time. Maybe I should’ve tried harder, planned better, been smarter.

I thought I made it. I thought that I had left this place for good.