2/10/99
You know what’s sad? It’s sad that I’ve finally decided to go see a psychiatrist and I can never find a good time. I’ve found that I’m slicing my ankle open more and more frequently and I don’t even need a reason anymore. I do it when I’m upset, but also when I’m on the verge of contentment, and even if I’m just bored. I like doing it. I like the feeling. I like watching the blood ooze out. I like the color. I like the consistency. I like how it gels and sets and turns into scab. I like to peel off the scabs and eat them. I like the pink edges of the torn scar tissue. The only thing I don’t like is how long it takes to heal, not because it really bothers me, but because I’m terrified that someone will notice--especially my parents. I can’t walk around at home without socks on and I can’t wear short skirts. I keep thinking I’m going to stop doing it, but I can’t. It’s like I’m addicted. I keep hoping it’ll heal, but then it starts to and I’m afraid the scars will fade, so I cut again right over the first scars. I need the scars to be there. I can’t stand the idea that people can look at me and think I’m perfectly content. I have to do something to destroy that facade so at least I can look at it and know I’m not complete. If my entire body was perfect and my skin was completely unscarred, I would be offended that my own body wanted to betray me by making the world think I’m a whole person.
At work last night, two of my coworkers, Gale and Dennis, asked to see my knife so I showed it to them. Then they asked if I had ever shed my own blood with it. I told them that Chase gave it to me, and he told me that a knife isn’t really your knife until you shed your own blood with it. They seemed appalled. They asked where I cut myself and I wouldn’t tell them, so Gale grabbed my arm and pulled back the sleeve and seemed satisfied that there were no scars. But they kept pushing the subject.
All this time, I’ve thought that all I needed was for someone to take notice and get me help. And I wanted to tell them, I really did. I wanted to show them the ten or twelve scars on my ankle, but I thought they’d freak out and never speak to me again. And what I really didn’t want was for them to tell me I needed help. I started feeling all nervous and uncomfortable. Thank god the phone rang and they had to leave. For awhile after they left, all I could do was stare at my ankle. I don’t know what to do. The only reason I feel like I need to stop is because I’m worried about what other people will think. That’s not a very good reason for doing anything. I don’t know why I don’t just go to the doctor. I’ve always wanted a psychiatrist anyway. Of course, I think I also don’t want to find out that I’m not normal and I have to change. I don’t want to change.
2/13/99
I went out last night for the first time in awhile. And even though I vowed not to do any drugs before my recital, I took some E. It didn’t do much for me. I sort of felt it but not really, and I had to have a good deal of alcohol before I felt it at all. Actually, who knows if I really did feel it since I had so much alcohol. I may have just felt the alcohol. I suppose it’s a good thing that I couldn’t feel the brain cells exploding this time. I am going to need those eventually.
I was actually kind of bored last night. I completely lost track of time and the night was over before I knew it, but I think I just stood around or wandered aimlessly from room to room. I got home and felt completely dissatisfied with how the night had gone. I looked in the mirror and my pupils were only slightly larger than usual. So anyway, what’s one of first things I did when I got home? I pulled out my knife and sliced my ankle open. It’s amazing how you can’t feel pain at all when you’re on E. So we’re talking I pulled out the knife and sliced deep enough that the skin completely pulled apart and it was still bleeding after eight hours of sleep. And I never felt it. It cracks me up that I so brutally destroy my own skin and then go out of my way to make sure it heals well. I always cover it with Band-aids and Mycitracin for the first few days. I think this is the first instance where I’ve thought that things were almost out of control. It bled so much that I couldn’t just sit and watch it, I had to bandage it right away. I could almost picture myself slitting my wrists and watching the blood go everywhere, not knowing what to do. I have this fucked up idea that any wound will heal even though I know intellectually that’s not the case.
I want to know what’s wrong with me and chase it from my life. I want to see its fearful face and look it in the eyes while I kill it. I want to carve it from the wood-grain of my flesh and bleed until it rushes from my soul. I want to watch it shrivel and gasp without my blood to feed upon. I want to know freedom from the tyranny of my unknown foe. I want to be alone with myself and not hear the whisperings of a sadistic lover. I want to know myself and not who I have come to know.
2/28/99
My senior recital was two days ago, and it's the only thing I can think about right now. I went into work tonight and someone asked how it had gone. Then a voice from somewhere came out with, "Wonderful!" I looked to see who had said it, and it was one of Gale's friends that hadn't even attended the recital. I looked at her inquizically, and she said, "Well, Gale said it was incredible." That means a lot to me. And at the reception, Gale came up and took a picture of me. This was good for two reasons: it reminded me to get my camera, and it meant he wanted a picture of me for whatever reason.
I really like Gale. He's good-looking, and funny, and interesting, and comfortable. And he rubs my head. Whenever I see him, I just want to run to him, and hug him, and cry, and tell him everything I hate about the world. I've had a thing for Gale for awhile, and I've never quite known what to do about it. It's not like I want a serious relationship. We're both graduating this year, anyway. But I want to tell him that he means something to me, and that I'm going to miss him. And I want to kiss him. I think I will before I graduate. I just really don't want to make things weird right now. We do still work together, after all.
3/17/99
It's amazing to me that the more interesting the things I do get, the less interesting everything else becomes. Nothing of much interest has happened lately.
I've recently returned from a very relaxing spring break at home with the family. Now I'm back to school with a lot of free time on my hands since the recital is over and done with. I'm trying to make the most of my remaining time in college and really spend some time with people and have fun--not that I haven't done that much all along, but now I appreciate it more. Or at least I'm trying to appreciate it while I still have it. I generally don't think I take many things for granted.
I thought I'd write today because something is on my mind that wouldn't seem so significant, except that it does. I was at work Monday night talking with Gale, and he said something about all the bruises he has. I pointed out that he's just as masochistic as I am, he just doesn't know it. Or at least he won't admit it. He just smiled. He knows it.
The conversation, though, triggered my brain to picture me and Gale in bed together, and me tracing a knife across his chest. It was a warm, fuzzy moment for me until I could no longer control my vision, and I stabbed him to death. I stabbed him because I wanted to feel his blood, and I just wasn't satisfied with surface wounds.
My vision lasted a few minutes, and I must have looked shocked, because all the guys asked me if I was okay. I thought it was weird. I like Gale. I wouldn't want to kill him. But my little vision made me wonder if I might lose control like that at some point. I hope not.
3/21/99
God. I so don't want anything to change right now. Work tonight was so much fun. I got to work with all my favorite people tonight. The thought of our core being suddenly dissolved at the prospect of graduation actually pains me. And the fact that Gale is moving to California makes me want to cry. He has come to represent the end of my college years. Instead of panicking about getting a job and moving on with my life, I'm terrified of having to live without Gale being around.
3/23/99
I'm aware that I'm assigning importance to Gale that may or may not actually have anything to do with him as a person. I do this all the time. Dante marked the end of my childhood. Lucas marked the end of high school. Gale is marking the end of college. Regardless of how well I know that, though, I can't help but feel really emotionally attached. I hate how much I think about him. I hate that I have to be disappointed every time I say goodbye to him after work. I feel like a teenager with a silly crush, but I want him so bad it pains me. I get chills when I think about him. And yet, I still know I wouldn't want a relationship if we were both staying here for the rest of our lives. It's just that whole tendency I have to over-romanticize when time is short.
I'm pissed at myself for being so caught up in stupid human bullshit. This is the stuff that I hear people on the streets talk about, and I hate them for being so oblivious about the more important things in life.
3/26/99
You'll never guess who just called. Gale. He called to invite me to a party tomorrow night. As soon as I picked up the phone and heard him say hello, my stomach fell into my toes. I was so caught off guard that I was shaking. I've got to work on my nerve problem.
3/28/99
I went to the party tonight, but I didn’t stay very long at all because it was really hot and crowded, and Gale was busy looking after some girl that was puking. So I left and went to my friend Dennis’ place for awhile, and we just hung out listening to music with his friend Price until 7:00 in the morning. Then Price walked me home in the pouring rain. He kissed me on the front step and obviously waited for an invitation to come in, but I needed to sleep so I sent him home. It was nice, though. He was very comfortable. We must have been at Dennis’ for at least three or four hours, and Price had his arm around me the whole time. It’s just so nice to feel protected sometimes.
I went up to my room, slept for six hours, made some oatmeal and cappuccino, and then something very strange happened. I didn’t feel like getting a shower or anything, so I pulled out all of my pictures and started looking through them. I got to thinking about people I haven’t seen in four, five, or ten years, and how much I’ve changed since then. I’m a different person than I used to be. I can feel myself becoming more and more of what I struggled through in high school. I really, really need to see a psychiatrist. I don’t really feel very clear about what I was thinking next, but I got up, pulled out my Spyderco, and fucking raked it across my left forearm. I was both surprised and pleased that it cut deeper than I meant it to. I stopped to watch it bleed for a moment and quickly realized it was bleeding faster than usual. I got a paper towel and went into the bathroom to wash it off, but I didn’t know what to do. It started gushing blood, and it started dripping onto the floor and everything. I wasn’t sure if this was right, but for some reason I thought cold water might help, so I ran my arm under cold water in the sink for a minute. Then I grabbed a few more paper towels and pressed them up against it while I collapsed onto the floor in the middle of my room and started shaking uncontrollably.
I was on my knees with my head and hands on the floor in front of my knees, and I was heaving with the task of breathing and screaming as though I was sobbing even though I never shed a tear. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t see straight. I couldn’t breathe. I curled up into a little ball and kept shaking, and shaking, and noticing how weak and frail I felt. I felt like if someone had poked me it would have shattered every bone in my body. I tried to stand up a few times, but I couldn’t. I looked in the mirror and couldn’t tell it was me. I actually thought, “Who is that? And if that’s not me, where am I?” I kept looking at the wound on my arm under the blood-soaked paper towels, wondering how I cut my arm without even being able to feel it. Generally, when I cut myself, I’m in a sort of quiet rage where I’m momentarily blinded and convinced that I like what is going on. But today, I cut myself in that blindness and came out of it too soon.
The idea that I cut my arm so deep while completely aware of what’s going on, and without being able to feel it, scared me. It’s like I’m two different people: the one that cuts herself and the one that doesn’t understand it. Today, the one that doesn’t understand it woke up prematurely and thought, “What the fuck is wrong with this girl that she wants to see blood pouring out of her own body?” And I was even more scared to recognize that I don’t really have any control over whether I cut myself or not. Most of the time it’s not a conscious decision. Sometimes it is, but usually it’s not. I keep picturing myself slitting my wrists while temporarily blinded in that state, and then suddenly realizing what’s going on. Can you imagine how much that would suck? Slitting your wrists and then suddenly realizing that you didn’t mean to?
I am so scared. I am scared of myself. I’m losing control. All I want to do is tell someone and let them hold me, and cry for me, and understand how severe what I am feeling really is. Every time I write something, I go back and read over it and don’t remember writing it. A lot of times I can’t believe that I actually wrote it. I feel like life is just entirely too much for me to handle, and I don’t even know why. Today I was in a perfectly good mood, and then I was collapsed and shaking on the floor. I tried to call people, but no one was home. I finally ended up calling Mom, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell her what really happened. She doesn’t need that right now.
4/6/99
Droll thing life is. I worked last night with Gale and the rest of the Monday night crew. Two o'clock rolled around, and we were all walking home when Dennis said that he was having a party and we should all head over to his place. So we all went over to Dennis' to hang out. Seeing as how it was two in the morning and I was just starting, I figured I should get drunk fast. Dennis handed me a bottle of vodka, and I immediately had several shots. Then I made myself a screwdriver and nursed it for awhile. I've been drinking a lot and I figured my tolerance was decent, so it took me completely by surprise how very fucked up I got. What I neglected to take into account was the fact that I hadn't eaten any real food all day long. My recollection of the party is really quite fuzzy--leftover E problems, this lack of drunken memory. Anyway, I'm not sure how it happened, but I woke up this morning with Gale next to me in my bed. I don't even remember leaving the party.
4/9/99
Life is rather interesting these days. I’m sort of floating in limbo between past and future, trying desperately to hold on to the present and appreciate it for what it’s worth. Whenever I try to think about my future, I just don’t care. I have no motivation, no goal in life. I’m becoming progressively more and more cynical. Everyday I get through is just one less day I have to live. I’m caring less and less about where I end up and what I do. I’m completely convinced that I was just dealt a lousy hand in life and there’s not much I’ll ever be able to do about it. And I’m completely clueless as to what is going on with Gale.
4/13/99
Things got a little weird last night. I guess I should have known that limbo can’t last forever. Gale walked me home from work last night. When we got to my front step, I had him sit down so we could talk for a minute. I told him how I don't like relationships and how we both know he's leaving for California in a month, so what we have is just whatever to me. He seemed relieved, like he thought I should've been yelling at him for leading me to think we have a relationship.
He seems to have some sort of deep dark secret that he won't share with me. I tried to get him to tell me, but I couldn't talk him into it. I want to know so badly. And yet, I don't want to get too close. He's got a darker side, and that is intriguing, but he seems to be a lot more successful in overcoming it than I ever was.
4/17/99
Gale and I went out for a few drinks tonight, and then we came back to my place. He decided to tell me his deep dark secret. Well, he didn't exactly tell me about it, he showed me journal entries he had written about it. He's not much into talking. It's about a girl. He apparently fell head-over-heels in love with this girl, and she just up and ditched him, saying she didn't want to have anything to do with him. This was about three years ago. I asked how long they had been together, and do you know what he said? He said about four weeks. Four weeks! I can't even imagine getting so desperate about someone in only four weeks.
He seems to have this very idealized concept of love. A lot of his writing was complaints about how he has so much love to give but no one to give it to, and how he can never think of anyone but her, how he wants to get close to people but can't, etc. I realize that I asked him to tell me, but the fact that he's never told anyone before kind of threw me. Is he letting me in because he wants to trust me? Or is it because he wants me to know the reason he doesn't like relationships? Is he providing excuses for himself, or letting me get to know him better? Has he never shown anyone before because he was scared? Or has no one ever asked? If that's the case, I feel really bad for him. That's sad. People can be so oblivious. It's not that hard to tell that he's not the fun-loving, trouble-causing, happy-go-lucky guy he always tries to be.
It was interesting because the first thing he showed me was a letter he wrote to her earlier this year. It said how he thinks about her everyday. It said that he knows it's been a long time, but it's still easy to write to her. It even said that he knew he wasn't going to mail it. After he let me read everything he wanted to show me, I didn't know what to say, so I just got up and went over to my journals and pulled out the letter I had written to Dante my freshman year. Some of the things in my letter were almost word for word identical to some of the things in Gale's letter.
He finished reading it, and he just looked at me. I can't even describe to you the look in his eyes. He looked almost stunned, almost like he was going to cry. He looked like he was amazed that someone might have an idea of how he feels. And if that wasn't love in his eyes, then I will never know what love looks like. I don't think I've ever seen someone look at me like they needed me so much. It was such a moment. If only I believed in love.
4/20/99
It's been awhile since I've given a shit about anyone else's life, so I had almost forgotten the curse I seem to have on people that I love. Isn't it funny how the more I care about someone, the more likely it is that something is going to go horribly wrong for them?
Last night at work, Gale got a phone call from his roommate telling him to call his mother. So he went to a pay phone and called home. He came back several minutes later, looking like he was trying not to seem shaken up. I asked what was wrong, and he said his brother's roommate committed suicide by jumping out of a twelfth story window. What the fuck? Some people go through life not even really acknowledging that these things happen. How come I'm so close to them? How come I have to look at the pain in people's eyes? Gale has told me himself that he's generally a happy person. Lately, I've seen him looking so dejected that I feel like I'm bringing him down. I don't know. I don't get it.
After we came home last night, everything was fine until I got all weirded out again. Why do I get weirded out when someone touches me? I must've been traumatized as a child. Maybe there's something hidden in the back of my subconscious, and I just don't know it. All I know is that when I'm in bed with a guy, I'll randomly get tense as with anger, and I'll feel like I want to cry. For absolutely no reason.
4/21/99
I feel like I totally fucked up. Gale didn't call me yesterday for the first day in at least a week. I didn't have anything really to say, and I don't mind that he didn't call except that now I'm all paranoid that I did something wrong. I wish I could make him fall desperately in love with me, but he's so detached. I guess it's a good thing, though, because what could be better for me than someone to sleep with on the weekends who leaves me alone to do what I need to do during the week? It's perfect. Almost. I feel like something is missing, though. Like he wants to let himself get involved, but he can't. Just like me with the touching thing; I want to, but I can't. What a strange thing we have going on here.
4/25/99
Thursday night, I had to write a paper for my drama class. It ended up being a lot more work than I expected and I should not have left it until the night before, but I did. I was up all night writing, and I was seriously stressing, so I called Gale at work. He volunteered to come over and help me. You have no idea how helpful it was for me to have company while I wrote. And you have to know someone cares about you when they come over to your apartment to watch you write a paper.
I was up till 5:30, and I had to wake up at 7:00. I felt it would be just cruel to wake Gale up and send him home at 7:00 in the morning, so I left him my key and told him to lock the door when he left.
I was sitting in drama class later that morning, when suddenly it occurred to me that I was locked out of my apartment. I figured it wasn't a big deal since my roommate, Camille, had just broken in the window of the living room a week or two ago. So I came home and went up on the roof and tried to break in the window. I stuck my fingers in the grating and tried to open the sliding bar, but all I did was bruise my fingers. I decided to go back into the stairwell, where I could get the metal bar that is supplied for breaking the glass case of the fire extinguisher so I could pry the window open with that.
That's when I realized that the door I had come out of was a fire door and locked from the inside. This is one of those things that could only happen to me. It was cold and rainy, and I was running on an hour and a half of sleep. All I could think was, "How do I get myself into these situations?"
I was standing in place on the roof, staring at the window, and laughing hysterically because I was completely at a loss for something to do. Pretty soon, two guys in the building across the street started yelling, "Hey, you!" I ignored them for awhile, but they kept screaming, "Hey, you! Hey! Girl on the roof! Are you locked out?" I felt really dumb when I turned around and told them I was indeed stranded on my own roof. They offered to call and get me help, but Camille wasn't home. Who were they going to call?
Then I started worrying that someone was going to call the cops, and I'd be arrested for breaking and entering, even though I didn't actually break or enter anything. Eventually, I remembered that our next door neighbors also had a window onto the roof. I ended up going over there. Thank God the window was open, and thank God someone was home. This was the first time I ever met my neighbors.
Last night was Saturday. Gale took me to some random guy's party, where we got really, really drunk. Maybe a little too drunk, but I was actually a happy drunk last night. I was drinking Absolut Citron out of a cup like it was water. And I was jumping around and screaming and having a grand old time. I was so happy and energetic, and reveling in the fact that I'm young, and graduating, and hanging out with Gale and his friends. I like hanging out with them because I feel young and uninhibited and carefree for a little while. Then reality kicks in, and I'm depressed again.
But I'm skirting around the issue here. Gale and I were totally going at it last night. We were drunk and wide awake, and both ready and willing--everything's going fine. He pulls out the condom, and then I just lost it again. I flipped out. I was fine, and then BOOM! I totally panicked and started shaking. Goddammit, why does this happen?!
Out of nowhere, a little later when I had calmed down a little bit, Gale says, "I have an idea." I asked what, and he said, "I'm gonna take you to California with me." That threw me off a little. He's so non-committal, and then he says things like that. And he says things like that, and then leaves a note on my pillow telling me how he can't stop thinking about that damn girl.
Oh, well. At least he tries to understand my issues. I'm trying to understand his. Between the two of us, we have quite a few of these issues. I think he's very good for me right now. I need him to keep me sane. He would probably find that funny since he's crazy, but it's true. I need him to show me a good time to get my mind off of life. And I need him to tell me that everything will be okay.
5/2/99
I don't know where to start. I feel like I have something on my mind, but I'm not sure what it is. I'm going into my last week of class starting tomorrow. Last week of class ever--senior year, college. And I didn't even think I was going to go to college. I'm in the process of trying to get a job, and an apartment, and a goal in life, while hoping to God that school never ends. It's like the book dilemma, like The Great Gatsby . It's such a good book that all you want to do is read it fast so you can find out what happens, but then you realize you'll be sad when it's finished, so you slow down and hope you never reach the end. That's life right now--school. I love it, and I want to keep going, but I want it to just stop right here too.
Tonight is the first night in a very long time that Gale hasn't stayed over. I like that about him; he needs his alone time. As do I. I also need some recovery time from last night. I have so many bruises on my arms from where he bit me that I gave up in trying to hide them. Whatever. We're having sex regularly now. It's such a non-thing for me. I don't love it or hate it, I just do it. Except when I freak out--that I hate. I'm completely aware that the reason I love for him to bite me till I bruise is entirely a means by which I can punish myself for what I'm doing. It's just like cutting myself. Only I don't have to admit to it being my own fault. I just randomly decide that I'm too weak to handle things, so I lash out. On myself. It fucking hurts when he bites me, but it makes me feel better about the situation.
Three weeks from today is graduation. Four weeks till Gale leaves for California. I'm both terrified of his leaving and looking forward to spending some time alone. My emotions are a complete wreck. I don't know what to think. I'm trying really hard not to care about him at all, but I'm also trying to allow myself to learn to care for someone else again. You know what's interesting, though? He's the most attractive man in the world to me.
5/4/99
I’m in another dimension--lost, and trying to find my way. I can hear the voices around me, chattering and laughing, but I can’t converse with them. They spin around my head and make me dizzy with jealousy. My table will not sit still, and my hands won’t stop shaking. I’m lost and confused. I’m terrified. There’s a monster in my brain. There’s an energy in my pen that’s coming from oblivion. My eyes are clouded over, and my throat is dry. I’m conversing with the dead, and I can’t find a way out. I’m stuck in a black hole, removed from time. I wonder what I look like from the outside of my window? I wonder if they can see the horror in my eyes? Can they see the passion? The envy? The pain? Can they see I’m being eaten alive from the inside out? Are there rays of light shining from my eyes? Is my dimension coexisting with any of theirs? What is going on? I’m drowning and I’m thirsty, but most of all--I’m lost. I can’t take any more of this living in my head.
I keep seeing little white explosions right in front of my eyes. My head and hands and legs fade in and out of consciousness. My blood circulates warmth through my cold and aching body with a confused irregularity that makes me question my vitality. There’s a disconnection in the wiring of my brain that warrants exploration before I can go on.
Help! Something’s happening--my body is inside-out. I’m finding it hard to breathe. I need someone to talk to. I think I need some drugs to even out my pain, to stop the tiny spiders that are crawling on my brain. I think they’re gonna poison me and hollow out my skull. They’re gonna live in my head and kick me out.
5/5/99
Gale mentioned last night that it’s been four weeks since we first started hanging out. I had no idea. It feels like it’s been about one.
We both worked last night and then walked home in the rain. I was so happy that he was staying with me again, but my day was overall kind of shitty. I was sitting in the student union earlier trying to write a paper for class and I just completely lost it. I suddenly couldn’t write anything else intellectual, so I pulled out a notebook and just wrote whatever came out. It was very strange. I wasn’t even really aware that I was writing until later when I read over it.
I’m not sure what happened. I felt like I was trapped inside a bubble while the rest of the world spun around me. I couldn’t feel any part of my body. I didn’t know what I was thinking; I just wrote and wrote. Luckily, Cara showed up before too long and I snapped out of it a little. It recurred at work, though. I’m starting to really wonder about myself. I’m actually beginning to hear voices in my head. It’s mostly my own voice, though, like I’m talking to myself instead of just thinking. It’s very strange.
Well, last night was weird because I was so depressed that Gale just tried to console me. I love having someone to hold me, to take care of me, to actually give a shit that I’m a masochistic basket case who can only barely function rationally in society. And yet, he’s leaving me. He has to go to California to surf and enjoy life.
5/13/99
I was sitting at work last night when it occurred to me how very lucky I am to have had this job. Of course, I already knew this, but it finally hit me that I will probably never be in another situation like this in my life. All I do at work is sit around playing cards with a bunch of really cool people. Occasionally, we’ll get a phone call and have to walk someone across campus safely, but considering how much work we actually do, the job could probably be more appropriately called “social hour” instead of “security service.” It’s at least 90% social. There are fifty other people my age, many of whom are very good-looking, and I get paid to be there telling them what to do! What could be better? I can’t tell you how much I’m going to miss that job.
The situation is helped only by the fact that I’m moving back up to Boston after the summer, so theoretically I could still go and visit some of the underclassmen. But then we come to the problem of the seniors. Ten more days and all of us graduate. I feel like I’m missing something, like the culmination of my college career is hugely anticlimactic. I want a big party where everyone can say goodbye. I want everyone’s addresses and phone numbers, and I want everyone to hug me and tell me how much they’re going to miss me--but no. Have a nice life. That’s it. It was nice knowing you. You have been entirely inconsequential to the overall flow of my life.
5/22/99
I graduate tomorrow. I honestly never thought the day would come. And here it is--tomorrow. And then the day after that, I leave to go home to Pittsburgh for my last summer at home. Any time in the past four years, I could've dealt with leaving, but not now. Not since April fifth. Not since my life has come to revolve around Gale. I didn't even know I was capable of feeling what I feel for him. I really didn't. A few nights ago, we went out dancing and had a fabulous time. Last night, we had drinks while his family was lost somewhere in Vermont. Tonight, we went out for drinks again, and on the way home we sat down on a bench to talk for a little while.
We talked about how much we're going to miss each other. He told me he realized we might never see each other again, and I flat out denied that that might happen. I can't believe that. I will not believe that. I refuse to believe that.
Then he gave me an envelope and told me not to open it until I'm in the car driving home to Pittsburgh. It is positively killing me not knowing what's in that letter. I didn't think I would be able to have it in my possession and not open it for two whole days, but he assured me that he trusted me, and I would rather die than break that trust. I can't imagine what's in the letter. I'm just going to have to try and forget about it for a day or two. That will be very hard. Whatever's in there will be the absolute truth.