The Journal Entries
3 January, 2012 0639AM
If you’re reading this, I want you to stop. Stop reading right now, because this wasn’t meant for anyone but me to read. I’m not writing this because I want any sort of pity, or because I want people to understand me. Really, I couldn’t give two shits if anyone understood why I am the way I am.
I’m writing this because it’s a new year, and I have to find a way to let everything out in a constructive way. I refuse to spend another year of my life being upset by him. I’ve been moping around for the past few months, finding ways to take my anger and frustration out without actually telling him what he was doing to me. I think this whole journaling thing will work. It should, right? I mean, I read about it all the time; people say it’s a great way to get in touch with your emotions.
Although I’m not really sure if I want to get in touch with my emotions, I’ll give this a try and see how it works for me.
When I’m 60 years old and going through my old things, I think I’ll pick up this journal and ask myself, “who the hell was I talking about?” To avoid confusion when I’m older and—probably—turning senile, I’ll write a brief description of what happened. Brief, because I don’t know if I can handle telling the whole story right now. That, and because it would take up nearly my whole day writing it down. I don’t think my hand can endure that kind of abuse this early in the morning.
I was in a relationship with this guy named Oliver. He is attractive, he is in a band, and he has a lot of tattoos; these are all things that I like in a guy. But most of all, he is sweet, and he is trustworthy—or so I thought. Long story short, things didn’t end well with Oliver and me. I found some racy text messages on his mobile and sent him packing after a three-year relationship.
At first I handled the breakup okay. I didn’t even cry when I threw him out of my apartment, where he stayed when he wasn’t touring with his band (a band that I’m not too fond of, if I’m being honest). Days after I ended things, however, I had a complete breakdown and my best friend Beck was forced to spend two weeks with me to make sure I didn’t try to commit suicide or whatever.
I’ve never thought much about self-harm. I know people who’ve cut themselves, and I know people who buy pills off the street and take them, and I know people who drink themselves into oblivion nearly every night. But I never thought about harming myself, no matter what the circumstances. Not even through the breakup, which I told Beck repeatedly.
Too bad she’s a paranoid freak and wouldn’t leave me by myself for more than five minutes the whole two weeks she stayed with me.
Anyway, I just wanted to be clear on that. It wasn’t like I went into a depression or anything, I just have some unresolved anger towards Oliver and I don’t know how else to deal with it. So it starts now. I won’t write daily, because generally one day in my life isn’t eventful enough to waste paper space on.
x,
Carlie
I’m writing this because it’s a new year, and I have to find a way to let everything out in a constructive way. I refuse to spend another year of my life being upset by him. I’ve been moping around for the past few months, finding ways to take my anger and frustration out without actually telling him what he was doing to me. I think this whole journaling thing will work. It should, right? I mean, I read about it all the time; people say it’s a great way to get in touch with your emotions.
Although I’m not really sure if I want to get in touch with my emotions, I’ll give this a try and see how it works for me.
When I’m 60 years old and going through my old things, I think I’ll pick up this journal and ask myself, “who the hell was I talking about?” To avoid confusion when I’m older and—probably—turning senile, I’ll write a brief description of what happened. Brief, because I don’t know if I can handle telling the whole story right now. That, and because it would take up nearly my whole day writing it down. I don’t think my hand can endure that kind of abuse this early in the morning.
I was in a relationship with this guy named Oliver. He is attractive, he is in a band, and he has a lot of tattoos; these are all things that I like in a guy. But most of all, he is sweet, and he is trustworthy—or so I thought. Long story short, things didn’t end well with Oliver and me. I found some racy text messages on his mobile and sent him packing after a three-year relationship.
At first I handled the breakup okay. I didn’t even cry when I threw him out of my apartment, where he stayed when he wasn’t touring with his band (a band that I’m not too fond of, if I’m being honest). Days after I ended things, however, I had a complete breakdown and my best friend Beck was forced to spend two weeks with me to make sure I didn’t try to commit suicide or whatever.
I’ve never thought much about self-harm. I know people who’ve cut themselves, and I know people who buy pills off the street and take them, and I know people who drink themselves into oblivion nearly every night. But I never thought about harming myself, no matter what the circumstances. Not even through the breakup, which I told Beck repeatedly.
Too bad she’s a paranoid freak and wouldn’t leave me by myself for more than five minutes the whole two weeks she stayed with me.
Anyway, I just wanted to be clear on that. It wasn’t like I went into a depression or anything, I just have some unresolved anger towards Oliver and I don’t know how else to deal with it. So it starts now. I won’t write daily, because generally one day in my life isn’t eventful enough to waste paper space on.
x,
Carlie