Dear Diary

I’m scared to death to write this. If I do, it becomes a physical piece of evidence. One that could permanently etch this battered and frail sense of reality I’ve come to know into existence. But I’m terrified if I don’t, then I will spend my entire life running from the truth. My life has become stifling. If I have to exist in this state for much longer I’ve no doubt that the weight pressing against my lungs will form a noose and suffocate me. The retaliation against unseen enemies has left me no choice but to constantly push the envelope. Finding myself in precarious situations time and time again. And while I derive fleeting sensations of enjoyment from these escapades I often wonder, is any of it real?

The hardest part of each day is finding constructive things to fill the annoying silence that cloys at me whenever I turn out the lights. The realization that I am completely alone, and utterly lonely; breaks my heart. Everyone I know and love is so self-involved. Their lives are so rich with meaning. When I try to reach out for help my pleas fall on deaf ears. All they ever want to talk about are ordinary things. But what I’m experiencing is so far beyond ordinary. It’s my mistake to think they could ever possibly understand.

One would think love would be the logical hero in this disaster. The perfect silver lining standing strong and resolute through the blackest storm. There is someone that I would do anything for, possibly even die for. But the kicker is he doesn’t want me! God knows what I wouldn’t give to be with him, to create a life with him. We’re too intent on treating each other like garbage and calling our actions love. Is it too much to ask for something more? To hope we have the capacity for more? The heart is such a fickle and complicated thing.

I cannot deny that the stirrings of my soul have always implied that cosmic guidance can be found in the beatings of the heart. And everything in the Universe has always pointed to him. Of course I would choose the complicated path. I always do. Its both my grievance and my saving grace. I haven’t let the deterioration of my world make me so jaded and cynical that I’ve lost hope. At least, not yet. But it certainly is a slippery slope. And I’m standing on the edge looking down into the abyss.

Hope is critical; especially for someone like me. If I lose sight of hope, the knives will no longer just playfully knick the skin. My hand will not stop until I scream, “Redrum em!” And check into one of two hotels. Either the one framed by the Pearly Gates that allows good little girls and boys to pass through or, the Flaming Layer of Hell; depending on which way my soul goes. Either way I’m getting the hell out of here. That’s the kind of statement someone “normal,” or ignorant to the kind of world I live in, wouldn’t understand. But like I already said, I am running from a very harsh truth.

Damn it! I’m angry. I’m hurt and I’m tired. The ravages of this life are wearing thin on my soul and I don’t know how much more I can take. I love with all of my heart " even if it is damaged. Still, I love as best as I can. And what does it get me in return? Nothing. Nothing of consequence anyways. And I’m stuck asking, “Why?” Wishing I had the answer.

I want to cry. I want to scream. My heart hurts from the unending negativity and uncertainty. God, it hurts like it’s never hurt before. Why did I open myself up to this? To him? This darkness hurts so much that sometimes I wonder if I should be in the hospital. Another crazy person in the loony bin, isn’t that a pretty picture. I can see it now. No wait, I can’t. I need to think positive thoughts so that I don’t attract negative things to myself. But damn it, I’m angry!

I can feel the rage boiling through my chest; it threatens to consume me if I don’t do something about it. So here I am, writing. Desperately hoping that the evidence I’m producing will ease my spirit. I’m so tired I could pass out from sheer exhaustion. I’m tired both metaphorically and physically. But what I haven’t admitted yet is that I wish I could sleep forever.

Wow, that thought was bad. I can’t afford think like that. Taking those pills won’t solve anything. Maybe I should call someone. But Who? It’s late. And they never listen anyways. It’s terrifying. Those pills really do sound heavenly. I could sleep and sleep and sleep…

Then again, I might not wake up. That would be bad. Or would it? Yes, definitely bad. God help me. I’m completely discombobulated! And, for what?! I need to get a grip. If I can just get through tonight tomorrow will be better. It has to be.

But can it ever truly be light again when ones lost faith in them-self? I’m so desperate. I’ve heard of rock bottom before, but I fear I have farther to fall before I finally get there.

It’s so dark in here.

Someone help me.

Author's Note

This is the first chapter of a book I've been playing with. Reviews welcome.

Reviews

[Girl Friday (Sarah W.)]

I liked the concept of this. It works well as a diary entry, and thus a preface to a book. I am reminded of a book I read some years back about a girl who committed suicide, but before she did, she sent cassette tapes to the people who had hurt her and who had helped her during her life. I sense the longing and the despair in the character's voice, and you have set a stage for something that I would definitely turn the page for...so I think you achieved what you set out to do in terms of prefacing a book...

[Kristin Lee]

Thanks Sarah :) I appreciate the kind response.

[John Christopher]

Wonderful writing! I really did like this. I think that it is great to read something about the internal life of someone. This story feels real, which is great. I myself suffer from bipolar disorder, I was diagnosed last year with it. I can tell you that often you get trapped in your own mind, and this story feels like that. Also, your style of writing is very similar to my own, where you take a character and explore their inner workings and their life as the subject matter. I'll have to continue to read your writing. :)