After her father’s death, wild child Rosie
Dwyer is introduced to journaling. She initially calls this writing form
cliché, but eventually a cathartic obsession begins.
EXCERPT
August 17, 2012
Hey, Journal,
That “Dear journal” shtick
is overused, so I’ll address you with the word “hey.” Hey, journal. I usually
write exclusively on scraps of paper. Underneath my bed is my literature’s
habitat and the paragraphs are seldom about anything. Last year, I discussed
career goals with my high school’s counselor. Once my writing aspirations were
revealed, Counselor became giddy and asked about my writing style. She said,
“I’d love to hear about it, Rosie.”
“It’s disorganized,” I said.
Then she handed me this ginormous journal and I witnessed a disgusting
“I’m-a-cool-adult” wink.
This is the first time I’ve
cracked you open.
Time seems to have
decelerated. The slowing of time is the only gift August 2012 has coughed up.
There’s been a drought, among other eyesores. I’m beneath our backyard’s oak
tree, its gargantuan arms stretching far, shade encompassing the entire lawn.
Many leaves are dehydrated. It’s as pleasant to lie beneath as Magic Mike is to
watch. Allow me to explain that analogy. The film’s previews had me expecting a
rollicking rom-com...something less serious. It differed from the ads. Still,
every scene featuring scantily clad men made it worth the cash. That’s what
happened with this shade. I’m below it, experiencing a full body itch, but it
could be worse. Due to lacking rain, the ground isn’t summer turf in the
slightest. Imagine wearing a pantsuit crafted out of hay and sandpaper. The
shade is nice, though. Makes me able to bear my eyes being open.
Jumping Jesus on a pogo
stick. I kid you not, as I placed the period after “open,” a bird landed in my
eye line and inched toward me. Soon, it was atop this journal. I thought, Birds
are flighty. Timid. Not this one. Its eyes were a familiar mess. I was
confronted by the undeniable fact that birds were my dad’s favorite animal. I
blinked, eyelids capturing wetness and holding it hostage. Moisture subsided
and the bird was all kinds of nowhere.
I wonder what it would be
like to sprout wings. To be gone. My pencil is begging me to release it from my
monstrous grip and my legs are screaming, “Let us run far away, Rosie.”
I’ll do what I do best and
let my impulses win. Run until I get scared and retreat. Run until I realize
it’s not the same as flying. Run.
August 18, 2012
Hey, Journal,
I’m not counting the days
that have passed since it happened. When a person starts counting the days
following an event, it becomes part of a timeline. Then, by consequence, it is
cemented in reality. I’m fortunate. My brain is still too immobilized to
visualize random numbers floating in space. I’m unable to make numbers relate
to each other, events, time or anything at all. Because of this, I don’t know
how long it’s been since he died. It’s messed up, but I prefer this ambivalent
uncertainty.
I’ll speak of something I
know for sure. Today’s bike ride destroyed me. August is going too fast. It’s
only the 18th, but it feels like the month is nearing its conclusion. The
weather is far too chilly, honestly. Deflated bike tires carried me down the
sidewalk of my street. I normally ride in the road, but I haven’t been in the mood
to care about the well-being of pedestrians lately. Those tires were spinning,
moving like the earth’s orbit around the sun, constant and circular, at least
seemingly so. Home was in sight. My eyes were on the trees above. I was
gliding. Gliding. The leaves were rustling. The world was unsettled. God
attached a handle to the South Pole, stuffed the globe full of beads and shook
this planet like a giant rattle. God’s infant-like cries resonated and the
wheels came to a screeching halt, all because the malicious fates placed a
tiny, dauntless bird on the sidewalk of Kale Avenue. I ran over the motionless
bird. Accidentally. Then I pried my fluttering hand from my mouth and threw my
wheels into the street. Seconds later, a police car demolished the bike and veered
to the roadside.
Fun.
The uniformed man shot out
of his vehicle, completely uncentered. There was a restricting quality to his
aura, accompanied by an unprecedented ability to snap. Light brown is the color
of a traditional rubber band, and when it comes to auras, it’s a color
associated with discouragement. His body language was discouraging me the
second he exited the car.
No, I’m not a psychic. I
don’t see colors framing the forms of people. However, I do see people for who
they are and enjoy describing this reality I perceive with the same language
aura seers use. I heard all about auras growing up under the care of parents
who lived to study metaphysical concepts. Much of the gobbledygook they taught
me is too much for my logical brain to handle. Both my parents underwent past
life regression, for example. Listening to my dad talk about his life as a
Vietnamese peasant girl creeped me out. But auras? I was somehow able to get on
board.
While laying eyes on me, the
uniformed man eased. He’s one of the cops who came when my dad’s body wasn’t
doing things it should be doing. Like, you know…living. I was the girl the cops
found in the disheveled garage, after I found… Nope. No. Nope.
KEYWORDS
teenagers, mental illness, suicide, Bipolar Disorder, journaling
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