on diaries read by strangers

Beirut, November 2, 2017

The days go by and I heal, little by little. I've often thought about the way people perceive me when I write. And especially when I write about heartbreak. Do I come off pathetic and desperate? Maybe I do. In real life, I do not feel this way. I write because writing is the natural thing for me to do. I don't share what I write, except with people who are close to me. And then, if by magic, I've forgotten the link to my website on one of my many online profiles, any given boy with a little bit of interest creepily visits it, reads the words of my soul laid bare, comments about it to me, patronisingly; you should write this, write that, you're good, he will say, without meaning it. Lies. These boys, such liars.

Sadness can feel so lonely. You become detached from your friends, who cannot understand your woes. Who cannot understand why you feel this way.

There is so little I can do to stop myself from launching into angry animal sounds. (Kim can do a giraffe.) I think I would like to be more rhinoceros or horse. Angry horse. Yes. So little I can do to prevent my launching into angry horse sounds every time I recall the humiliation I felt upon realising that his uncertainty towards wanting a relationship, meant one thing: he wants a relationship. Just. Not. With. Me. Capital. It sinks in. It always does. After, comes acceptance.

And acceptance is slowly settling in: he is not coming back, he is not coming back; anger. Anger, mostly that I am still thinking about the whole ordeal. Anger that I let myself believe, once more, and hope for something that wasn't there. Then, there's disgust. Disgust at the way people lie. I would have liked a sincere "I don't like you, now please leave my life." Instead, I get lots of beating around the bush. A false assertion that crumbles as soon as it appears. Well, the bush has been beaten down to the last leaf. It is but a skeleton of what once was. Do not worry. I know better now.

I ask myself: how would I feel if they these boys ever read my confessions? Disgust, I am sure. But I am trying not to be ashamed of myself. My feelings, driving me to write this were valid. My hope was valid. The hope to find love. It's still there.

This is the truth: where I am certain of his great relief upon my leaving his life, I have felt great sadness (as you know), great longing. I have thought about him manically, since he exited. I still do. How can I write this here? I can. Because he will never come back here. I know. He has not thought about me once, since I drove off and away from him, into the night. I know. And if he does come back here, if he does read this, he will feel aversion, disgust (he will shudder; "she is obsessed with me," he will think), he will delete my name, block me, stop me from ever contacting him again. How unattractive becomes the interested girl. No, the one that is tormented, the one with the history and the baggage is far better. The one that will hurt him. She's far more exciting.

Nobody likes my interest in them. And my inexperience; a burden. (This sadly means I will pour myself into anything I feel strongly about, without second thoughts about getting hurt. Getting hurt. Everybody always gets hurt. What is this obsession everyone seems to have with shielding themselves from hurt? I would rather be hurt than ignored. Indifference has a way of crumpling up your spirit, of creating so much humiliation. Again, I ask myself, how did this get here?)

Reader, I am not obsessed. I will never try to speak with him again. I never want to see him again. His disinterest makes me feel cheap, unworthy. And I don't like feeling this way. But I am just sad. Incredibly sad. And this is my process: thinking about him, because I can't help it; thinking about him, thinking about him, thinking about him, until I can't think about him anymore. Until it stops.

Joni Mitchell wails in the background.

This is another sad post. Sad, but hopeful. I am getting better.

And what should I do now? Kim suggested I write a cheesy romance story. I think I will try that. 

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