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Sixteen

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Twenty-Nine





    That thing I said I wouldn't do. That I would never do? I did it. I'm doing it. Why does it still scare the hell out of me?
    I feel like everything is muddled in my head half the time, but this is the only thing I'm clear on. I love him. It's simple; so finding out that we've been here before, coming back to each other should be more comforting. But I can't help feeling like he's trapped to feel this way, that it isn't real.
    I've known him for years, but this has happened so quickly. I'm caught in this state of wanting to give into it, to admit that there's more going on, more than I can control, but the thought alone is enough to send me into a panic again.
    I need to know that I have a constant. That I'm anchored somewhere. But it's selfish to make him that, and I need freedom too. I'm such a fucking contradiction and I don't even know why he even wants me. He deserves better.


    I want to be sure of everything and I know I can't be and that's frustrating as hell. I don't want to ask him again. I don't want to upset him, because I feel it. I really feel it. I know I love him. I just want time to do what it needs to do, I don't want to feel like it's a trick. I don't want to feel like I'm leading him on. I don't want to break his heart or cause him pain. That week when I couldn't even reach him. And then it was all in my head... I want to go as deep as I can go, with him... with us.
    But I know that can be too much to ask. I know I can be too much if I let myself go. Too intense. And now that I know I can do these things ... these impossible things. I can hold my breath, the Earth will swallow me up, taking me as far as possible, for as long as my lungs can keep.
    It's insanity, but it's my new reality. I don't know myself like I thought I did. I could ruin this. I could ruin us at any moment.




    I hate writing in this thing. I don't know why I keep coming back to this to even try when I find it so weird and impersonal every time. Maybe because I'm not actually writing to anybody? I'm just... talking to myself, by writing to myself. Like, that's insane if you think about it. If you really think about it. Isn't it? I can't be the only person who feels like this, but maybe I'm just getting way too deep.
    But isn't that the whole point of keeping one, to get all the thoughts out? That's what Anna-Marie says it's meant to do, but I still just feel like a psycho person and she's scarily organised so it makes sense. Now that I think about it, her thoughts are probably colour-coded and indexed alphabetically. But like, what if the thoughts are stupid? What do I do then? White it all out? Start again?
    In the end, it's just more evidence for anyone who hates me. And when I'm dead, this will be the testament to all that I achieved in my life. I sound paranoid and morbid, but it's true. It happens in all the movies. Like, where people write their deepest darkest secrets down and then their worst enemy finds it and ruins their life or they die and their parents are like, "Oh no, we didn't know Sally was into hard drugs and prostitution and The Verve,"
    It's always in the most obnoxiously pink and fluffy diary too and they leave it in the most obvious place to be read. That's why I'm writing this in a general ledger. Ha ha haaaaa, suck on it, future historians. Who I'm now calling perverts. Because you are. Anyone reading this who isn't me is a pervert.
    I guess the last thing I want is someone finding this or finding this when I'm like old, like 25, and reading something dumb and embarrassing that I wrote and I won't be able to justify it because I'll just have my stupidity staring right back at me in my own handwriting.


    But it could be worse. I could be writing really flowery rhetoric -- can rhetoric even be flowery? -- about what it was like the first time Bobby and I had sex. We haven't had sex to any perverts reading! I don't want to do it with him. We're really good friends and we've kissed a couple of times and we've done ...stuff, but I can't stand it when he says all the things that he thinks are meant to be romantic. It just makes me feel like he doesn't know me at all. I'm not going to swoon just because you think it's poetic to call my eyes "azure orbs that penetrate your soul". Like, they're not even blue...? Whatever.
    My handwriting could be so much better... I need to practice my cursive. I know Bubby would be upset if she saw how lazily this is written. I really miss her a lot. She'd know what to do about this whole college thing too. I know she'd want me to go and I know she'd be angry at Mom and Dad for being so stupid about it.
    I don't get them. They don't have to work so hard anymore. We're officially middle-class. Like, we have a porch and an "entertainment room". We've made it. The American Dream is alive! So can they please be around for Sasha now? Properly. Since, hey, they're her parents?! Seriously. You shouldn't have kids if you're not going to be around to raise them. And it's not like I can take Sasha with me to Boston when she has to go to school.
    I have to choose between staying here and wasting two more years at Glenbrook or moving on my own. It's not fair! Like, I'm already freaking out enough about being ACCEPTED TO COLLEGE. Why do they have to tell me I'm being selfish and not putting family first!? I'm the one who's been taking care of Sasha ever since Bubby died! And I still got a scholarship! Like, can't you be proud of your daughter for once? Why can't you just say you're proud of me?
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