I started recording this late at night just for myself, already in tears. Even though I've known intellectually that childhood trauma affects me—that I was a traumatized kid who lived in survival mode for years—I don't think it had ever truly hit me until tonight just how much of everything I built was shaped by that trauma, and that this past year is the very first year I finally sat down and looked into healing.

The saddest moment of my therapy session earlier was when Arthur spoke about how my younger self took the crumbs—how that younger part of me accepted Julian's crumbs, and how I even tried to salvage a friendship with a man who mistreated me. Sitting here tonight, I feel so deeply sorry for myself for having gone through that.

Now that I've started recording these tapes, I won't be typing as much as I used to. After writing hundreds of thousands of words over the past year, I've realized I love speaking into a microphone far more than typing, and now feels like the right moment to move forward—sitting with the mic every once in a while for honest expression and gratitude.

My inner critical parent is on high alert tonight, but Arthur asked me to bring tenderness to my younger self instead. I want to spend this week speaking to that boy, looking at old childhood photos of him, and giving him the love he was never able to receive—not from his parents, not from his friends, not from his community, not from a therapist, and not from his sister. The boy who only knew achievement. The version of me who only knew how to make money. The version of me who went right back out onto the dating scene and realized: Well, you're not ready yet.

This is not the time to let the critical parent take over—the critical parent isn't going to help in any way. This is the time to give myself tenderness, not to sneer, "Oh, look, you're traumatized." This is the time to fall in love with myself again—because I don't think I ever actually did. And that is why I'm grieving tonight: I never loved myself. I never picked myself.

I have all of this financial security sitting in the bank, and what is it even for when I am just sitting here alone with this ache?

I am stepping out of this machine. Like a stock chart, healing isn't linear and it doesn't happen overnight, but I am stepping out of the machine. I am committing to myself and to healing myself. I am committing to my growth, to loving myself and learning who I truly am, and to holding my boundaries—and the fact that I said "no" to Julian is the biggest proof of that ever. I'm going to keep taking care of myself, and I'm going to keep fighting—not for anyone else, and not for anything external, but for me this time. I'm going to keep fighting to create the best environment and the best life for myself.

I'm crying heavily right now—I don't know how much of it is the wine from dinner and how much is everything finally coming to the surface. Still, I think it's wonderful that I went out and spent the evening with a friend tonight despite everything. Human contact matters, even in the middle of deep grief work; staying connected to people is going to be monumental for my healing. An AI recently reminded me to stay around people and communities, and I think not every human interaction needs to "lead somewhere." Even talking with strangers at a dinner, grabbing coffee with someone, or going into London just reminds me that life is still moving and people are still out there. Even so, there is an unmistakable pain in my chest tonight—real trauma living in my body, and all the evidence shows it is still right here asking to be felt.

I originally recorded this thinking I would keep it to myself, because it felt so raw—but I think it's important to include this tape after all. That's enough recording for tonight; I need to get some rest. I'm going to purchase the domain and put these tapes online, because it feels like time to share my pain anonymously with the world—hoping no one links them back to who I am.

And yet, even if someone ever did, I have no shame. There is no shame in my story or in my trauma, and no shame in sharing this with the world. Perhaps one day I'll put my real voice out there—but for now, this goes online.