Going through my father’s old letters and notebooks has been both helpful and emotionally debilitating. I’ve locked away so many of those memories for so long. So long, in fact, that I began forgetting my past. I grew hardened to it, refusing to confront the pain that was my youth and early adulthood. Over the years, I think I lost my identity, having developed into a shell of a man, often emotionless, expressionless, exhausted. So many years wasted, just shuffling through the haze.