“Notes from my journal” is a series in which contributors share excerpts from their private journals, diaries and notebooks.
Feb. 24, 2013
Why I haven’t started this journal before today is beyond me, but here I am, ready to spill my guts into the bindings of this notebook. I am in love with a boy named T and basically have been since Oct. 6, 2012 when we first met at a party at CZ. Last night we met at the “big rock” like always before heading to his place.
He had a crazy look in his eye. “Let’s try something,” he said and kissed me on the forehead.
T began walking a different way home, and I followed. At the top of Ridge, he got on his bike and told me to get on the handlebars. I questioned his sanity but as I am completely irrational when it comes to him, I of course jumped on and held him as we plunged unsteadily down the hill, letting gravity bring us home.
Am I crazy? Is he?
In the morning I woke up for lab at 7:30 a.m., we snuggled for a little until he had to force me out of bed because I was late for class. I’m a child, I know. Something told me that I had snored all night and I’m sure he detested me, but still he hugged and kissed me goodbye.
Nov. 23, 2013
It only takes one lie to cause an avalanche.
A lie exposes other weaknesses.
A lie exposes all previous lies when discovered.
All lies are attached, like dominos, one falls and the rest follow in a rhythmic sequence until everything that was one good has collapsed at your feet.
Like dominos you pick up the pieces and begin to rebuild.
And this time, if you are smart, you rebuild without the lies, grow without them, live in truth.
No lie ever goes unpunished, whether he finds out or not, there is a constant fear of misstepping, of forgetting the details you imagined in your fictitious mind.
Jan. 3, 2014
I am with his mother in her apartment, he is gone back to university to take exams. I have never been left alone with a boyfriend’s mom for such an extended period of time. Fuck, I’m scared. She avoids English like the plague, just like I have been avoiding French. Still, I’m happy to get to know her. She’s funny. She likes to say, “opp” a lot — not really sure what it means. She seems to be all over the place, but I don’t think she really is. She’s sweet and in many ways similar to my mom. She paints, she buys things without use, she saves ribbons, she collects rocks from the shore. It’s the small things that are often the most important, the most showing of someone’s soul. I wonder what my mom would be like if she was a single mom with one kid instead of a married woman with three daughters. I see T in her, but does that mean I see my mom in T? I already know that I see my Dad in him … weird! Oh, lordie … I have problems! STRESS CRISIS!
I have two days with his mom and then three days all by myself, traveling around Bordeaux! I haven’t been alone in a long time.
I want my mommy!
June 25, 2014
Ode to les Mouches
(Ode to the flies that lived with me in my caravan while WWOOFing in France)
When you wake me up at daybreak and kiss my sleepy head,
You can buzz all you want and still I’ll want you dead.
You tickle my arms, and fuck on my bed.
You have more sex than me and so I smash your head.
You think you’re so clever, when you fly from my swats
Enjoy your laughter, ‘cause soon you’ll be in knots
When I get home, I think I’ll feel a little better about the breakup, less like I want to shoot fire at any creature that looks at me wrong — sorry, flies. I shouldn’t have had him live on the farm with me, but could I really have done otherwise? I spent so long getting here that’s it’s hard to just give up.
Four more days ‘til home …
Oct. 6, 2014
It’s been exactly two years since I met you … and almost three months since we broke up, funny how things can change so fast.
I don’t know why I’m still so mad.
Maybe it’s because I hate admitting that I am still in love with T or at least the him that he was. A man who once put a note on my bike as it sat outside Morrison Hall, the man who once told me he loved me and meant it. A man who let me cry and sometimes cried too. A man who danced like a maniac with me. A man who wrote me a love song and sang it to me in bed. A man who met me at the “big rock.” A man who laughed at me when I thought my car battery was dead in the middle of L.A.
A man who changed, a man who changed me.
So why am I mad?
I am mad because I lost him and because we aren’t on good terms. I’m mad because I wasted so much time with him. I’m mad because it wasn’t a waste. I’m mad because sometimes I think he thinks it was. I’m mad because I let him hurt me. I’m mad because he wasn’t the man I thought he was.
I’m mad because I want to hate him, but I can’t.
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