Can I get some fries with that angst?

Apparently, I have been unhappy most of my life.

I am cleaning out my closets today. I found a huge box filled with writings, poetry, and random things I've saved throughout the years.

Starting from about fourth grade up until last year or so, I have written down how I was feeling at any given moment in time. But unlike journals, it's on random pieces of paper, in no order but some dated. A good amount are narratives about what's going on in my life and the constant heartache I was going through. Many more are poems expressing unrequited love and the pain that goes with it, depression and self-hatred.

And the numbers are in the thousands. I'm not kidding. On one piece of paper I could have written five poems, and I have a storage box full of notebooks, folders and binders.

I've known that the box existed. I've known it all this time. I've also known what was in the writings. But I was never able to look at them as who I USED to be. It was always who I AM.

It would take me days to read all of them, and I really don't want to. But I will keep them. For awhile, at least. I will keep them all on a shelf until the day comes when I have the time to take that trip back into who I used to be.

As I was sorting them, I would read the first line or so of the top sheet on a pile to see if it was a poem or some random piece of paper that could be thrown away. After reading those lines, I was filled with sadness....but not a sadness because I know that feeling because it still exists...but sad that I ever felt that way. Sad that I never loved myself enough.

And the fact that I can see it that way makes me so happy, because it means I have found that love for myself.