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Diary of a Twenty-Something: 07.13.18.

July 13, 2018



I love having rainy days off- I've been awake since 5:30, sitting in bed with the windows open, listening to the sound of the rain, and the slaps of vehicles hitting wet pavement. 


It's a Friday; the rest of the world is running around, getting somewhere they have to be, but in this apartment, time is still. Today, I get to breathe. 


I haven't stopped writing in weeks. I'm writing a novel, but what's unique about that? Doesn't everyone want to write a novel? I'm going to rewrite my story, through the lens of a girl talking to her dad in a coffee shop. I'm imaging PAUL in Tokyo. I can't decide if it will be interesting, or just sad. I'm listening to Melodrama right now, no wonder I'm an emotional wreck.



"Hard feelings, I wish I believed you when you told me this is my home... " 


I just have so many feelings. I'm only 21 years old, but I feel like I've already been battered and bruised enough for a lifetime. I'm happy now, but there are so many emotions that I haven't entirely worked through. Things that I should still be in therapy for. 


Flashbacks to terrible nights, a sexual assault that went unspoken, bruises that were never addressed, anger that was never released. I don't know how to let go, without writing. I don't know if I'll ever stop being angry. If I write this novel, will I stop being angry? 



"In my head, in my head, I do everything right. Wild and fluorescent, come home to my heart." 

I wish this novel ended with the girl turning into a dragon and stepping on the asshole who broke her. 


But this is real life, so the girl is still a girl. She is sitting in her apartment, trying to release her anger, while the boy is somewhere out in the world, probably breaking his sobriety, completely unaware that she's still giving herself therapy for the emotional scars he left. 


I hate that he still takes up space in my thoughts. He doesn't deserve that space. But I'm the happiest I've ever been, and yet still so angry. I'm angry because he's gone, but I'm still fucked up. I thought the emotional trauma would end when the relationship did, but I still find myself trying to justify my actions, when I'm being rational. I'm still terrified of saying what's wrong. I still curl into a ball when it comes to confrontation. I still flinch when a man changes his tone of voice. I'm still so scared, and I fucking hate that he did that to me. I hate him. 


So I'm writing a novel. I'm drinking my second cup of morning coffee, and I'm writing a novel. I'm going to write until I stop feeling angry.


"What the fuck are perfect places?"



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