Coping.

It was my twentieth birthday a few days ago, and I celebrated this long-awaited, momentous occasion by giving up and ditching my good friend in Cambodia, getting stranded 8 hours alone at the airport and crying relentlessly on the plane. I never knew myself to be so impulsive, emotional and defensive. Breaking up is such a strange foreign feeling. Like losing a big part of yourself to a stranger.
I suppose this explains the recent bout of self-loathing. I walk around aimlessly trying to get out of a imaginary rut. I try to change as much of myself as possible, from my hair to my clothes and to some extent, even the people I hang out with. Why am I so lost. Find me.
I don't regret what I had done, because in the long-run it was the right thing to do for both of us. But it doesn't make it any less difficult. My head can rationalise every feeling, every thought, every urge to turn back. But my feelings just rebel against such distant objective analysis, and I'm right back where I started.

I shall have to be less soppy soon. Classes are starting and I've been neglecting my friends, who still try to make me feel better despite everything (and alcohol does help a little). I know I can't just wait for myself to feel better. There's a person I have to be, and things that need to be done. I know.