Last weekend, I spent some time at my father’s place, as he was in the mood to play around with my computers and I do not have internet at my apartment on purpose, although I am starting to rethink it.  I had gone out the night before with my good friend Z, and I was exhausted but thankfully not hung-over at all.  I should not be seen when I’m hung-over, not only because I’m nauseous the whole day and have no patience for people (not that I tend to have patience anyway, though surprisingly, I am the most calming person in a stressful situation), but also because I just look awful: my skin has this pale-sickly complexion to it and my lips are a bright red.  The funny thing about my relationship with my father is that, whenever I am in the least possible social mood, that’s when he’s in the most and vice versa.  It’s actually kind of amusing.  Saturday, he was in the mood to hang out for hours and I…I just wanted my bed; I literally fought the whole day to keep my eyes open: no amounts of food or caffeine fixed my problem.  Ever have those days?  I’m generally tired because I’m a terrible sleeper, but there are just some days where I should be at home and in bed…or at least dozing on my couch.

My father left the room at one point, saying that he had something for me.  When he came back, he plopped a thick binder in front of me.  I looked at it, feeling as if I was supposed to know what it was, but I didn’t recognize it, so I opened it.  As it turns out, it was one of my old binders from high school, the contents of which helped me to deduce that it came from my junior year…mostly.  I decided to briefly go through it, page-by-page; there was some interesting stuff in it of which I will look at it more closely before deciding what to ultimately do with it.  The one thing that stood out to me the most though, was two “journal” entries that I had written in the midst of all the school pages: it was from my sophomore year.  I glanced up at my father, wondering if he had read it or not, but decided that I’d rather not ask him, seeing as how it was from so long ago that it really did not matter…then I poured over it.

Automatically, my mind drifted back to that time period in my life; I had to be about fifteen or sixteen when I wrote those two entries.  That wasn’t the easiest time in my life; in fact, it was probably the hardest.  Twelve years ago my life took a dramatic change.  I remember everything that happened then, but reading those two entries felt as if I were reading that of a stranger’s.  It’s weird; I remember the emotional pain that I was going through at that time, but at the same time I guess, maybe I don’t quite remember as vividly as I thought.  The girl in them was so distraught and intense, and so not the me that I know today, that I barely recognized her.  I’m not sure if that is a good thing or not…maybe it is a good thing.  Maybe that’s how you’re supposed to remember the past: feeling detached from it.

Those are the only two journal entries that I have from that far back because I had to turn them in (yes, that’s right).  Part of me is glad of this, but part of me wonders, if I did have them, would I still feel the same detachment that I felt by reading those two, or would the feelings and thoughts grow on me and engulf me once more?  I will never know the answer to that, and it’s probably for the best…although this experience has made me want to read as far back in my journals as possible (yes I still keep a journal) to see if I remember being in those situations.  It’s funny how the mind works sometimes…

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