Journal Entry

Summertime Current year

You were released from prison after you sobered up. You sat in the jail cell for hours. You missed work. Missed your bed. Missed your old self. As the police officer drove you back to the house, he recommended therapy and maybe a journal. You just nodded in agreement, but didn’t relay care. Being sober made you want to vomit. That was the hangover. You acted on your thoughts and in turn got punished for it. Soon you’re in front of the house. Car is still there. Get out of the police cruiser. Thank him and shut the door. He doesn’t drive off. He waits for you. Waits for you to leave. Stare at the house. It seems to be staring back at you. Mocking you. Calling you a fucking idiot. Look back at the cop. Nod. Now get into your car. Drive home. Think.

The TV is still on when you open the door. Nothing has changed. Go straight for the liquor cabinet. Pull out every bottle of booze you have. Go to the bathroom. Pull back the shower curtain. Begin dumping the different colored liquids down the tub drain. You’re not healed. You’re far from it. But obsessive drinking won’t bring it back. Won’t bring the memories back to life. It only heightens your anxiety. You don’t have to heal now. Drinking isn’t the answer. After the last bottle is emptied, throw them all into a trash bag. Go to the garbage outside and throw it in the black bin. Think.

Take a hot shower. You can still smell some of the booze through the drain. This’ll make you gag. Shave. You never could grow out facial hair. Change into some comfy clothes and pour yourself a tall glass of water. Your headache is slowly going away. Eat some toast and oyster crackers. This settles the stomach. Have a flashback to when everything was better. Cry. That’s alright. Pace around. That’s alright too. As you continue to pace, you notice a notebook on the desk in your room. Go and grab it. Open it and flip through the pages. It hasn’t been used yet. You can’t remember why you even bought it. Then the police officer’s voice enters your head. Try writing in a journal. It makes more sense now than earlier. You think it might help. Grab a pen and sit down. Begin.

I really don’t know how to start. I’ve never written in a journal before. Although I probably should start. I probably should seek out a shrink too. The walls inside my home have seen me cry and talk to myself enough times now. I guess I’ll use these pages to write down my feelings eventually, but not today.

You’re nervous to write more so stop. No one is going to see what you write, but you stop anyway. Think.

The next morning you get up for work. Just tell everyone you had a family emergency. They’ll believe you. Not like they care that much anyway. As you work, drink coffee and click your pen. This is a way to try and distract you from the constant inner monologues you have. Sometimes it works. Most of the time it doesn’t. This is the cycle that repeats itself for days. You don’t write in your journal. You’re too busy sitting on your phone. Living through other peoples’ bullshit. Think.

Now it is the weekend. You have nothing to do and no one to see. Being by yourself is okay, but the anxiety still runs your daily life. You wake up and have your first monologue of the day. Begin making coffee and think about how you only have yourself. No one to drink it with you. Start making breakfast. No one to make it with. Now eat the food. No one to enjoy this with. Emptiness runs through your body. Brush your teeth now. No one to look at through the mirror expect yourself. Wash your face. No one to hand you a towel. You exit the bathroom and see the notebook. Grab it and a pen. Begin

This won’t fix me overnight. This won’t bring you back. The miracle I hold on to that you do come back is bigger than it should be. Don’t ask why I do. Maybe it’s comfort or maybe it’s an insecurity. Either way it’s there and always will be. Like a tattoo. It can never be replaced. It can be covered up, but its origin is still there. Every morning the first thought that runs through my head is you. You’re voice echoes through the darkness. Then it follows me as I get ready. Ready for another day of being empty. Fighting every ounce of regret.

Then as I continue through the day, you follow me. Part of me says this is an obsession and I need to be arrested again. This time not be allowed back out. Maybe it be better that way. Life moves forward while I sit in a cell and have the same schedule over and over again. This way you’ll be happier. Happier that I won’t contact you or come knocking at your door. Which I have thought about doing. Maybe I still will. Still fight for what I think is right.

Your silhouette still sits in the passenger side of my car. You glance at me from time to time and smile. Just like old times. Times before I decided to fuck it all up.

You pause for a minute and look up. Wipe the tears from your eyes before they get on the paper. Continue.

I go and grab your hand, even though sometimes I thought it was dumb to do. That’s when you disappear. Then it’s just me driving. No one really understands why this is the way I feel. Grief is an odd feeling. It’s either with you for a brief moment or continues to run through your body and mind and heart for a long time. It's clear that life is better off with you.

Think.