I have TONS of these things. In fact, I kept a paper journal from age 12 until about 2007, when blogging kind of overtook my need to get things down in a personal journal. And as I was digging through these old spiral bound college ruled tomes, I picked up one from 1995.
Now, it's not like I was looking around and stumbled upon my journals. "Oh, wow, would you look at that? How did THESE get here..." I know where the damn things live and what's in them. I wrote them. I know they are in the 3rd drawer from the bottom. I know they're in chronological order, and this particular one is right after the 1994 journals. I'm not surprised by the fact that it's there, right where I left it last time.
I did this despite the fact that my parents would have flat murdered me if they ever found out. Which, until today -- right now, in fact -- they never did. Sorry mom. Remember how we never had any milk or cereal? Now you understand.
March 14, 1995, about 2 AM:
I'm sitting in my car outside your house. It's two in the morning and I'm trying to think you out of bed. You always meet me. But not tonight. Not this time. And it's not the first time, and I don't know why, and yet here I am.
I keep feeling the worst feeling in the world... Every time I look at the clock and realize it's ten minutes later, and you're not coming out. Not tonight. Not this time.
You say you know me, but all you see in me is yourself. And I want to believe I'm you, so badly. You're everything I wish I could be. Strong, intelligent, funny and aware. You don't want to know anyone and you couldn't care less about anything.
I want to know the world. Worse; I want the world to know me. I care about everything. I want more than anything to be understood. And here you are in my life, at least pretending to understand me. I don't mind. It's a gesture most aren't willing to make; and the me you think you understand is, at least, someone I wish I was.
And that's why it hurts so much when you shut down, because I'm not strong enough to be you. I shut down too. I can't pull you up. I can't help you. You help me so much (you try at least, and that matters). You don't even realize when you're doing it. By being so strong, you give me that strength. By talking to me about what you think I need to hear, you show me you want to see me.
I'm not naive enough anymore to believe you when you tell me it's all going to be okay. Every night it gets worse. I don't know what's happening to you or why. You won't tell me. You always made me do all the talking. You always told me how to fix myself. And now I realize, you were really telling me you want to be fixed. And I want so badly to help you. Now. Tonight.
But you're not here. Not tonight. Not this time.
I'll go back home; I'll sneak into my window and sleep for two hours and get up for school. Maybe today you'll show up. I doubt it.
I want to know you're alright. I want to know you'll still be there to make me alright. I want to go up to your window and tap and roust you out of bed and know what's going on.
But I'm not that brave. Not tonight. Not this time.
Anyway, this whole story ends with me trying to kiss a student teacher. If you clicked the link above, you'd know that. This was in the same year, I had my crotch thrown up on during a botched first date, and I got the crap kicked out of me by a girl who attempted suicide by Advil. Among a LOT of other things.
I'm not sure why I told you all about Michele, or why I shared this passage. The truth is, I'm not sure why I do most things. I'm kind of an idiot. You know this about me. And yet, you keep coming back. So thanks for that. Thanks for trying to understand me. It means a lot.