Apparently, I only come back to my poor, neglected blog when I'm depressed

I feel disconnected from something that is inherently myself. Something in me pressed pause, but the rest of me kept going and now that piece of me is lost. I don’t know what to look for. Where did I go? Is this sense of displacement a sign that it’s time for me to turn inward, then outward again, and tell my story? That’s what an honest writer does: he turns himself inside out. And for public consumption, no less. I’ve always been hesitant to tell my story. I feel I won’t be truthful or project the lightheartedness years of perspective are supposed to have granted me. It all still feels so raw. The fights I had with my high school boyfriend about sex still aren’t humorous to me (well, most of them aren’t, but, in hindsight, fighting about fingering in a driveway after breaking up is sort of comical). God knows I don’t want to depress people, and by people I mean me, by rehashing my life then offering it up for judgment. So, I’m selfish – another sign that I’m meant to write. If I were also an alcoholic, there would be no dispute.