I read through some old diary entries today.
I say diary entries. In truth, they were more like rants, typed in fury, and saved in a folder where only I would see them. That was the idea. In the end I sent a few of them to you. I know that because in the same folder there's a document of saved messages from you and I can see your responses.
I can't see mine though. I never saved my own words.
Odd, that: a one-sided conversation from which I have to deduce what I said. I don't really need to. Reading it through brings back enough memories and emotion for me to deal with, without seeing my own fifteen-year-old self making a mess of things ... as usual.
You have to wait for me. I wrote that, in one of those diary entries. Rants. The wrong thing to say, as usual. It would have been easier if the thought of 'waiting' never entered our minds, if 'no' had been a firmer thing. It wouldn't have lasted as long or hurt as much.
Reading through my words, I see how angry I was, and how confused. Not just angry at you, though I had every right to be, but angry at myself. Gods, I'm pathetic. That's what I wrote. I was mad at myself because suddenly, I thought something that characters in books thought, that normal teenage girls thought ... and I didn't want to be one of them.
Maybe Gods, I'm such a hipster would have been better, if it's conforming that's such a problem.
See, I can't even take myself seriously.
Reading it through, though, it's not fun. I'm not proud of it. It's like I said before -- a part of me, but not something I want to admit to. And reading my anger only serves to make me angry once more. Reading through what I wrote about you ... and what you wrote about me.
That's the other thing about saved messages. You were adorable. I think that was part of the problem. I couldn't see the differences between us because they were hiding behind the cutesy exterior.
I don't feel like that any more. Oh, I'm still confused, but for different reasons. You're not really the problem: it's more what you represent, and how other people see you, and what you tell me about myself.
(Mainly that the hipster in me should be happy, because I am different to others around me. Well done, Miriam, you're a freak! Would you like a prize?)
Sometimes I want to rant again, and save it in my folder of bitterness and hatred, which I can't quite bring myself to delete. I suppose if ever I'm in a situation like that again, I'll open it and see that this isn't the first time, and I'll have a frame of reference. Or maybe it's to remind myself how much it hurt, I'm not sure. The latter is why I never add anything to it. Reading it through is too painful and brings back too many bad memories, even though you'd think by now I would have got over it.
Seems not. Pity, that.
I guess this is one of those rants, really. Only this one is more public than any document I emailed to you. You know, a complete stranger could read this ... or you could. I hope you don't. That would be awkward.
Part of me must wish you would, though, or I wouldn't have talked this way, straight at you, through the medium of a page on a site that's out there for the world to see.
I think I'll stop now. After all, it'll only turn into a rant. Or a pity party.
I'm not really sure which is worse.