Today, I can perhaps acknowledge something that I never dared let myself feel: I hated it, from the bottom of my heart. I was deeply unhappy. I was absolutely, fucking miserable. Words cannot describe nor do justice to how painful it was. The food, the environment, the strange people, the forced routine. It was unspeakably bad, painful, filled with indignities and suffering, and I was so unhappy I did stupid things that I regret till now. 

I probably believed that I would not be able to make it through if I acknowledged these feelings - that my mind would shatter, that I would fold, that I would be reduced to (yes, dramatic) madness. So I did not feel. 

But acknowledging these feelings also put into perspective the actions I did then. This is not an excuse. But perhaps I am trying to forgive myself. Perhaps I am trying to move on. Perhaps I am trying for a better future, and maybe that begins by looking at my past straight in the eye, with some compassion.