At the not-so-grand old age of nearly eighteen, I didn't think that I (of all people, geez) would be one to cry my eyes out over something that happened when I was fifteen - but hey, so I can surprise myself after all. I thought (or maybe hoped) I was over it. I thought I had reached a point where it no longer mattered, or at least where it was made up for many times over. I thought the only emotion left in me towards that period was a weary bitterness nearing the end of its course.
Well. I thought wrong.
It will never 'no longer matter'. It was not made up for, just prevented from reaching worst from worse. It can never be made up for - not that anyone would ever want to, but the point still stands. And... it is somehow just as painful as it was then.
My masochistic tendencies are proven. Why on earth would I otherwise dig out such painful memories and feelings that were buried so long ago for the main reason of protecting myself from an overload of unhappiness?
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