Excerpts From My Journal, Circa Right After The Breakup

*Sitting in my now gone coffeeshop, writing furiously, in a way that might only make sense to me*

I'm confused but I don't have the luxury of breaking down.
Suck it up, chica, it's only your life.

I do a lot of damage when I pretend to know what I want.
And most of the damage is to the people that take me at my word.
Why do I feel obligated to pretend to know what I want?
Wishful thinking?
Vanity?


I'm crying and I'm smiling but I feel like I should look sad so that the people around me don't think I'm crazy. Screw that.
Why pretend?
My tears have no despair in them.

I wonder if anyone will ever understand that about me?
That the moment my face is puffy and blotchy and I'm laughing like a crazy woman, I'm at my most sane. That's how I think/heal.

I would help a lot if someone understood that. They they'd say the right things. They'd offer me tea and kleenex and look at me without pity, on the contrary, with acknowledgement that this is me at my finest.

I'm a confused, mixed-up little girl and I'm going to do the world a favor and admit it.

I will giggle and cry my way through it. It will be splotchy and unpretty and I will look crazy and when I'm done I will be at my most sane, my most honest, my most beautiful.