Dear Journal
by Lanie Pointer
Dear Journal,
Why does it usually feel like second nature to write to you except for now? It used to be easy to pick up my special golden ink pen and connect it with the bright white paper bound to your royal blue spine. I know we haven't spoken in a while, but I can't be all to blame. You have sat on my clutter-filled desk for the past four months and leered at me with judgment. You judge me for the empty, undecorated walls in my new apartment that proves my laziness and my unwillingness to create a space to call my own. Instead, I make it my own by covering every surface with dirty clothes, trash, and personal items that are begging to be put away.
You judge me while I spend my free time laying on the 3x5 cleared-off space on my bed where I wallow. The only lighting coming in is from the bundle of copper fairy lights that sit in the far-left corner and the streams of fleeting sunlight peeking through my closed blinds. My revolving heater is set to the highest setting because it seems like I can't get warm anymore. The heater is useless because I still find myself shivering and clutching my blanket that reeks of unwashed despair and deep-seated regret.
As I lay in the fetal position on my left side, I scroll aimlessly through my phone, trying to find something that will occupy my mind. I start to think of the many times I wanted, or rather, needed, to write to you during this extended break. But every time you caught my eye, I could feel whispers coaxing my nonexistent muscles to continue my ceaseless scrolling to avoid telling you the truth. My phone is my security blanket, something that acts as a barrier between me and my mind. It doesn’t let me think. I'm afraid of letting my mind wander for more than a second because it will force me to list everything wrong. It will force me to face my fear of the future. It will force me to live.
If I were to continue writing to you, I'm afraid I would lie. I would downplay my inner turmoil because I don't think I can put into words why I do what I do. I can't tell you why it feels like I keep having to fight to be happy. I can't explain why I can never relax because I'm always thinking about my looming future. I don't understand why I can't just be normal. Why can't I reach out when I start to slip? Why do I debase every issue I have because I know that many people have it worse than me? I could be homeless. I could have a family that doesn't love me and isn't willing to help me. I could be physically sick. Those things are far from being true, yet I sit and wither away as if they were.
I can't pity myself because every issue in my head directly results from one of my actions. I have made the bed I lie in, and I deserve no pity. My body image issues are because of my hatred of working out and my love of food. My lack of friends is due to my desire to be alone. I don't overthink if I'm alone; there is no one to overanalyze. My troubles in school are a result of my laziness and the never-ending doubt of whichever career seems to be my calling for the semester. I will always be behind; physically, socially, academically, and mentally. I would say that my brain and body are at war with one another, but it seems as if my body has already bent to the dictatorship of my mind.
I have lost the war, and I am losing my allies around me. The people around me think that I want to be this way. I know that you think I want to be this way. To wake up every day and wish that my dreams were my reality. I know that you think that I am comfortable with my underlying insatiable need to sleep, that I am content with my life and the constant internal struggle of whether or not it’s worth fighting to be happy for that given day.
Truth be told, I wish I was. Then I might be able to see the floor of my room. Then I might be able to establish relationships without thinking that they will eventually leave me. Then I might be able to actually be alone with my thoughts. Then I might have a moment where all the thoughts and incessant chatter starts to dissipate, until all I am left with is a gratifying silence and an overwhelming sense of peace.
~
God, I dream of that peace. I dream of a point of normality in my life, where I can stare out the closest window and not worry about my regrets or what I’m missing. I think writing to you is my stupid way of trying to get my peace. It feels like every word that is written on one of your pages is one less word that is ricocheting within my head. But you are simply a means to an end. Your results are a quick fix that allows me to take a shallow breath of fresh air and wait until one of the bad days feels especially dreadful. Because after a bad day, I need a fraction of peace.
I don’t promise to write more.
by Lanie Pointer
Dear Journal,
Why does it usually feel like second nature to write to you except for now? It used to be easy to pick up my special golden ink pen and connect it with the bright white paper bound to your royal blue spine. I know we haven't spoken in a while, but I can't be all to blame. You have sat on my clutter-filled desk for the past four months and leered at me with judgment. You judge me for the empty, undecorated walls in my new apartment that proves my laziness and my unwillingness to create a space to call my own. Instead, I make it my own by covering every surface with dirty clothes, trash, and personal items that are begging to be put away.
You judge me while I spend my free time laying on the 3x5 cleared-off space on my bed where I wallow. The only lighting coming in is from the bundle of copper fairy lights that sit in the far-left corner and the streams of fleeting sunlight peeking through my closed blinds. My revolving heater is set to the highest setting because it seems like I can't get warm anymore. The heater is useless because I still find myself shivering and clutching my blanket that reeks of unwashed despair and deep-seated regret.
As I lay in the fetal position on my left side, I scroll aimlessly through my phone, trying to find something that will occupy my mind. I start to think of the many times I wanted, or rather, needed, to write to you during this extended break. But every time you caught my eye, I could feel whispers coaxing my nonexistent muscles to continue my ceaseless scrolling to avoid telling you the truth. My phone is my security blanket, something that acts as a barrier between me and my mind. It doesn’t let me think. I'm afraid of letting my mind wander for more than a second because it will force me to list everything wrong. It will force me to face my fear of the future. It will force me to live.
If I were to continue writing to you, I'm afraid I would lie. I would downplay my inner turmoil because I don't think I can put into words why I do what I do. I can't tell you why it feels like I keep having to fight to be happy. I can't explain why I can never relax because I'm always thinking about my looming future. I don't understand why I can't just be normal. Why can't I reach out when I start to slip? Why do I debase every issue I have because I know that many people have it worse than me? I could be homeless. I could have a family that doesn't love me and isn't willing to help me. I could be physically sick. Those things are far from being true, yet I sit and wither away as if they were.
I can't pity myself because every issue in my head directly results from one of my actions. I have made the bed I lie in, and I deserve no pity. My body image issues are because of my hatred of working out and my love of food. My lack of friends is due to my desire to be alone. I don't overthink if I'm alone; there is no one to overanalyze. My troubles in school are a result of my laziness and the never-ending doubt of whichever career seems to be my calling for the semester. I will always be behind; physically, socially, academically, and mentally. I would say that my brain and body are at war with one another, but it seems as if my body has already bent to the dictatorship of my mind.
I have lost the war, and I am losing my allies around me. The people around me think that I want to be this way. I know that you think I want to be this way. To wake up every day and wish that my dreams were my reality. I know that you think that I am comfortable with my underlying insatiable need to sleep, that I am content with my life and the constant internal struggle of whether or not it’s worth fighting to be happy for that given day.
Truth be told, I wish I was. Then I might be able to see the floor of my room. Then I might be able to establish relationships without thinking that they will eventually leave me. Then I might be able to actually be alone with my thoughts. Then I might have a moment where all the thoughts and incessant chatter starts to dissipate, until all I am left with is a gratifying silence and an overwhelming sense of peace.
~
God, I dream of that peace. I dream of a point of normality in my life, where I can stare out the closest window and not worry about my regrets or what I’m missing. I think writing to you is my stupid way of trying to get my peace. It feels like every word that is written on one of your pages is one less word that is ricocheting within my head. But you are simply a means to an end. Your results are a quick fix that allows me to take a shallow breath of fresh air and wait until one of the bad days feels especially dreadful. Because after a bad day, I need a fraction of peace.
I don’t promise to write more.