For something like six or seven years, I kept a private online journal. I wrote in it every day. Sometimes two or three times a day. It documents my becoming, but mostly it documents my loves, my love, this one person, that shit storm. I stopped keeping it not too long before J died. Because my life felt different. I didn’t need private thoughts anymore. Any private thoughts I had, I could share with my person. And then everything in my life exploded, but I didn’t go back to that space. Only once or twice, out of desperation, to post grammatically and conceptually incorrect sentences, to shit my brains onto paper[webpage] where no one would see the mess I’d made. I did it again tonight. After a phone call that is too heavy for me to carry in my heart. And when I got there this evening, I found one entry from this February. I didn’t remember posting anything in 2014, but there is this one thing, most of which makes no sense. But here is the last part:

Do I even love you anymore? All I can think of at this moment is every way in which you are not right for me. Is that constructed though, too? Like your feelings? Am I constructing anti-feelings? Am I building the place inside me where I can effectively destroy this? If I am, and if I do, is there even anyone else out there? There has to be. There is.

I am 25 years old. I haven’t even begun to know.

Stop fighting stop fighting stop fighting.
Stop fighting.
Stop fighting.
Stop fighting.

Stop typing.

I did it. I did that thing. I built the place inside me where I effectively destroyed my own past, my own feelings, my entire relationship. I had to. I didn’t realize until I re-read this that I’d been conscious of this attempt as I was doing it. It didn’t feel conscious. I guess I am more productive, or at least more aware than I usually give myself credit for. Sometimes I need to write a thing down to make it be true. I wrote this thing to an end. To save myself. And I can bear this new old weight, because I’m better at this than I ever let myself realize.

I am trying with every ounce of strength I have not to become 14 years old again. Because I want to get past 26. I want to find the anyone else who’s out there.

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