I’ve spent the last three weeks transcribing my old journals. For twenty years, these scribbled steno pads and composition books have been shoved in the bottom of a box. I always mean to throw them out, but couldn’t quite bring myself to do so. What if there was something I needed to know, or remember in those pages? I hated the idea of reading them, of being reminded of what a stupid girl I was then. There are so many things I can’t forgive her for and yet I knew that I needed to make some measure of peace with her eventually. I don’t know if I thought of that when I decided to tackle the journals, but as it turns out, that’s what’s happening.
On the way to work I tell my sister what’s going on with the poor sad fucked-up stupid girl in the journals.
“Who are all these Nates and why don’t I remember any of them?” or “She’s so excited and she’s about to be utterly crushed. I kinda feel sorry for her.”
“It’s weird that you’re talking about yourself in the third person,” my sister says.
“I get that I was her but I’m not her now. Ya know?”
And it’s easier to like her when I think of it that way, to recognize how she is struggling instead of just cataloguing her failures. But like an audience shouting advice to the final girl in a horror film, I want to shake her and scream every now and then.