I never, ever know. How is it possible to really be this unsure? About everything? Maybe I’m just a million different people all pressed into one, maybe I’m no one at all.
Maybe everything that I do is driven by the desire to sink into the dark. Maybe my true love is thinking. I think I’m sad all the time because it validates at least something. Because if I were to take all of that away, if I were to shed all my tears so that there were no more, I would be made of nothing. At least I am something on the nights I want to hurt myself. I’m an abandoned house in the woods. It’s so much easier to fill myself up with sadness than it is to accept absence.
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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