Oh my goodness, the times I’ve berated myself:
Why did I write that down? Much less give to to another person? And on purpose‽
I am a very open person when I write, and a very close person in many other circumstances. These two aspects of myself sometimes conflict, most often in sudden regret as the reserved half realises—too late!—what the other half has let slip.
It’s alright in the end, I suppose—has to be, as there’s little that can be done about it.
And anyway, there are far worse things than being honest. Even foolish feelings, genuinely told, have greater value than noble feelings never expressed. Probably.
(It still sometimes leads to this.)