I have been writing in a journal on an almost-daily basis since I was 17 years old. This is a record of me going through each entry from the beginning, and commenting on the me from fifteen years ago.

I think I may be love sick & that makes me sick. I’m ashamed of myself for thinking I might be on another end of a stick that I hadn’t expected to be on. So what do I do? Do I say, “Hey, I’m so sick in love with you it’s driving me insane. It’s like all I think about lately. I find myself arranging my schedule just to see you. I’m really fucked up and lovin’ it!” No, I don’t. And why? Because I’m scared to admit to myself, much less anyone else that I’m this hung up, let alone in love. I started wanting just a friend, and then got so much more. Here I am bitching about being over-compensated. Boo Hoo! This has gotten too whiny over something that shouldn’t be whined over. I’m dropping it now. Free. Live in now.

I really wish I’d said what I admitted I never would. It certainly sounded more exciting on paper.