My habits have been slow in coming, but in reflection of the last couple of weeks I’m finding it to not be like massage school, where the layers were peeled back. Instead of removing layers, this seems more akin to a cherry pitter, poking directly into the source and working its way out. This is the first time, in a long time, where tears just come. Normally, that is the result of seeking the result, either through repeated viewing of sad movies or listening to emotion evoking music. But it’s nice, to feel a tear, and not feel like it’s trying to stay in my tear ducts. I know I’m shutting a lot of pain up inside, my writing has been clogged (as the emptiness of this journal shows) and I feel like I’ve stunted myself in some way. The words don’t flow in the rivers previously known, nor do they just attach to the paper I carry with me. I’m still trying to get past that period where I always had someone questioning what I wrote and not leaving it simply as me expressing myself.