Sometimes I look at old journals and it's like reading about a completely different person, someone drowning in a sea I barely remember feeling that deep. I keep those journals hidden, like evidence I'm afraid someone will use against me. The proof that I was ever that weak, that close to gone, still feels too dangerous to have lying around. There's a strange comfort in those forgotten selves, though. Like knowing the worst storms really DO pass, even if you can't imagine it in the thick of them. Evidence that I'm not ALWAYS this calm, collected version, but also evidence that even the screaming, broken one made it through.