On Friday, I got really drunk at Richard’s. I threw up a lot, it was so fun.
But something happened that made my heart heavy. I sat my drunk ass down in the snow and was throwing up, so Jack came outside. He sat next to me and sort of held me (?) while I threw up. He was also really drunk. Suddenly we were both pouring our hearts out to each other.
He told me that he [redacted]. He also told me that he [redacted]. I’m so sad for him. Why can’t he be different than me? No one should feel this. I can’t stop thinking about it.
Something that sucks is when you finally decide that you need help but you can’t get it. If I told an adult, no one would care. Even if they saw the signs, who cares, teenage phase.
Born in 1996
Over the coming months, I'll be publishing several journal entries a day in chronological order. I began journaling in 2007, when I was eleven years old. Even then I wrote as though I were archiving my life, collecting details about my world. As I grew older, journaling became more of a description of my emotional world.
I am an aspiring creative nonfiction writer who is producing very little since graduating college this Spring. But with this unusually thorough account of my entire adolescence, I feel as though I have been given a gift that has been under my nose this whole time.
This is a practice in forgiveness and vulnerability. It is also a way to laugh at myself.
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