My feelings didn’t die; they simply grew too heavy to hand to another human, so I carried them alone. Over time, the carrying hardened into a personality.

 My feelings didn’t die; they simply grew too heavy to hand to another human, so I carried them alone. Over time, the carrying hardened into a personality. It’s like a machine on a factory line with an obstacle placed in its path. The machine keeps running, unaware, and everything it produces stacks up against that blockage. That’s how my feelings live inside me. They are as young as a starved baby or child from being denied, yet impossibly old and ancient from having that denial as their default. Now the real difficulty isn’t the obstacle itself, but the thought of removing it, because doing so would release the whole accumulated mass at once.