The Things I’ll Tell My Diary and No One Else

Hi all, I would like to add a quick trigger warning for sexual violence and mental health.

December 12, 2020

Hypothetically, how many years in prison would I get for cutting out Caden’s tongue? I’m talking sawing that thing off with a rusty, dull knife, fingers crossed that it causes an infection that kills him. That would probably be a few more years, right? I was also thinking I could cut it off, then shove it right back in his mouth and let him suffocate on it. Really, I’m open to any option that involves never hearing him speak ever again.

He is my boyfriend, I know. I think a prerequisite of that is actually liking the man. At some point, I did, I think. It’s getting harder to tell these days. He could breathe, and I would find a way to be annoyed by it. Too loud, too sharp, too airy.

Last night, we were in bed together watching an episode of Bridgerton. It seems to be all anyone can talk about from their couches, mid-pandemic, in the strange fever dream of a national lockdown. At this point, I think we all might be delusional and globally bonding over a singular Netflix original series, a reminder that there is a life outside of the four walls of our bedrooms.

We get to the scene where Daphne straddles the Duke and forces him to finish inside of her. Arguably, that was pretty fucked up of her, no one is denying that. But Caden simply lost it. He fully sat up, waving a sharply pointed finger at the TV screen.

“That was rape,” He said over and over again, pointing, jaw slack.

I nodded, of course, because yes, that is exactly what we had just witnessed. Sexual assault. And that is not the part that bothered me. For all its worth, he showed he does have two eyes in his head and a brain that works. But, I realized that if the positions had been reversed and it was the Duke who held Daphne down and forced himself inside of her, Caden would have said nothing. It wasn’t him pointing out the obvious that irked me so, but him only caring that it had happened to another man. That is what made me want to slap him in the face and kick him out of my house.

I didn’t, of course, slap him or kick him out. But I think I’m beginning to realize that I might hate my boyfriend. I also think he is owed credit where credit is due. There we were lying in my bed, fully clothed, watching Bridgerton of all things. He’s a good sport, I’ll give him that. He hadn’t even asked to have sex or, worse, asked for a blow job.

But in summary, I think I hate him, I certainly hate having sex with him, and I think we need to break up.

February 5, 2021

Was it something I did?

Technically, yes, it was everything he had ever done. From the way he talked to the way he breathed to the way he’d touch me, and it would make my skin crawl, that knowing churning in my stomach when I felt like he only saw me as a body and not a person.

We broke up in his car. He lived a good thirty-minute drive from me, so we decided to meet somewhere in the middle. I gave him back his clothes, or I tried, he told me to keep them. Honestly, I’m kind of happy about that part. Those pajama pants are the comfiest pair I own. At least I didn’t have to part ways with them.

He asked if it was something he did. The short answer is yes, but the longer answer is, I think there is something wrong with me. I don’t think I’m built for this love thing. I think I’m incapable of it. Whoever was putting me together missed a few critical pieces on the assembly line. I told him it was all me, that there was stuff I needed to figure out, and I had to do it on my own. I don’t think I lied. I just kept the other half of the truth to myself.

I think I unreasonably hated him. My growing annoyance with everything he did might not have been a tell-tale sign that he was the worst person ever. I think it meant I was, though. I might have been too harsh on him, and I found myself wondering if he was truly as bad as my mind had conjured him to be.

I hated a man who was decent, who was kind. He was funny, too, most of the time. I don’t think I ever loved him, not in the way I was supposed to, but we were friends. Good friends. You don’t spend that much time with someone not to miss their absence, even if you wanted them gone in the first place. Was I glad to have him out of my life? Yes. Was I going to miss him? Also, yes.

April 3, 2021

I’ll admit, it has taken me a very long time to get onto this TikTok thing. I was going to be one of those people who never downloaded it. Maybe I thought it made me morally superior. But what else was I going to do? My state is still in lockdown, and they’ve decided I automatically get to pass all my classes this semester, so there’s no need for me to try in them anymore. I have no boyfriend anymore. This stupid little app has filled a cataclysmic void of boredom.

Today, during my post-lunch doomscrolling. I came across the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. I spent the rest of my afternoon, up to dinner, scrolling intensely through her account. I was in a trance, hypnotized by a level of beauty I didn’t know existed.

I’ve seen plenty of beautiful women in my life. Arguably, I am one of those beautiful women. I heard it enough throughout my life to know it was true. But there was something about her that made my stomach flip like I was on a roller coaster. It felt like my internal organs were going to take flight.

Then there was a question in the back of my mind, clawing its way out of my subconscious and screaming its way through my internal monologue. Do I like girls?

May 11, 2021

Oh, I like girls.

It’s just us here, so I figure I’ll be honest. I’m just a girl, and I have needs. And no one but my own two hands to fulfill them. Late last night, with my hands between my legs, I closed my eyes and imagined a girl touching me like that. The soft touch of her hands and the wetness of her lips as she kissed me right in the spot that made my back arch and a moan part my lips.

Nothing, and I mean nothing, no man through years of crushes and boyfriends, had ever made me feel like that. And the mystery woman from last night was nothing but a figment of my imagination, allowing myself to indulge in a secret moment for only my own memory. It was a test, an experiment, and I passed with flying colors.

There’s no coming back from this. I’ve uncovered a part of myself that can never be locked away again. Like graffiti, no matter how many times it's painted over, more will always show back up. I don’t want this to be painted over. I like this.

June 22, 2021

I don’t think I like this.

On the very positive side of discovering that I like women has come the terrifying bridge I don’t want to cross. The very real possibility that I don’t like men. At all, like not even a sliver. This bridge hangs high over a canyon. It's made of rope and cracked wood. There is a very real possibility that it will break on my crossing and I’ll plummet to my death.

Liking women is beautiful. Everything about it is lovely, like running through a field of sunflowers on a perfectly cloudless summer’s day. There’s that sweet aroma of blooming flowers, freshly pollinated. Bees even buzz in the air, and normally, at the sight of a bee, I would run in the opposite direction, filled with terror. But not here, in this magical world of girls loving girls.

Realizing I don’t like men feels like something died, like I’m carrying around a rotting limb. Its flesh is sliding from the bone, and it's crawling with maggots. And the smell, the wafting, perfume-like scent of the steaming hot shit that is death.

I feel like I’m in mourning. Call me a Victorian and get me a veil. My entire life, I was told to like boys, so I did. I was always told: when I get a boyfriend or when I get a husband. There was never any option given to me to not like boys; I never gave myself that option either.

Now, all that was crumbling in front of me, like the ancient ruins of a city long lost. I would never have a husband or children with him. This entire life I’d built up in my head like a movie montage was slowly fading away. I have to mourn the life I’ll never get to have. Come to terms with the fact that my mother will probably not be coming to my wedding. That from here on out, people will feel like they can judge me based on one fact alone. People will hate me for something as simple as who I love. My existence is illegal in seventy-two countries. I have to be careful where I travel. I’m certainly saying goodbye to getting married in Italy.

If someone could point to the very part of my body that made me this way, give me the rusty knife, cause I’m cutting it out. I’ll do anything for a chance to be this world’s twisted version of normal. This feels too isolating. This is a visceral feeling of self-hatred I want to be free from. So give me the knife, let me cut it away. I don’t care if I have to rip my heart out of my chest, tear away my ribs just to get to it. Or if it's deeper than that, ingrained in my very soul, in a part of me so intertwined no knife could ever reach it. I don’t care if it kills me.

At least the world will stop looking at me like I’ve done something wrong.

October 10, 2021

I lost a life, but I also gained a brand new one.

I woke up one day and realized that I don’t care what the world thinks of me. Cause I know what I think. I love myself and who I am. It only took a while to figure it out. But that’s how life goes, you never know what the road will look like until you’ve reached the end. Or I my case, only a pit stop.