Amber

Chapter 25

December 4, 2014

Dear Journal,

Sorry it's been so long. There's no easy way to put this, so I'll just say it.

We might be drifting apart.

It's not you—it's me.

So, okay, it's actually kind of you a little bit too. It's mostly you, actually.

I guess I only sort of needed you at first because of the whole Brad situation. Had to try something. It freaking worked! Yahtzee! And now ... ya ... that's going about as well as possible, and I am crazy happy and bursting and feel like singing all of the time (which he makes me do a lot whenever we're in his car).

That's why I haven't been journaling recently. Your fault. You brought upon this awesomeness.

But I know I'll still need you because I'm not foolish enough to think this amazing feeling will last forever. Some shit is eventually going to go down where Brad and I have an argument, and you will be my outlet. Or if something great happens, I'll share it with you also.

The point is—I'm still going to need you. You've become a part of me. You're more than some place my mind can go to talk about things, because sometimes I can hear you talking back. You have all of these different voices. My voices. Some voices encourage me. Others put me down. Some want to lift me up. Others just want to hurt me.

I know they're the same voices everyone always has in their heads, but I truly feel that writing it all down keeps them from overwhelming me. Gets them out of my system. It's weird. But I feel that, like, without you, my thoughts would get trapped inside, and all of the voices would make it so that I couldn't listen to the world around me.

God, I must be crazy.

Diagnosis: FIBS (Fell in love with Brad syndrome).

Symptoms: Shortness of breath, accelerated heart rate, goose bumps, sudden hatching of butterflies in stomach, spontaneous smiling (if a smile lasts for more than four hours, consult a physician immediately), swooning, dieting, burning of blue sweatshirts (in rare, very serious cases), repeated episodes of drowning and resurfacing simultaneously.

Cure: None!

Treatment: Daily journaling. Death.

It's times like these I wonder if Brad would still want me if he knew the real me. If instead of being mysterious and contradictory and containing multitudes, I was just plain psycho to him. Would he run away and hide from me forever? Does everyone keep at least a little bit hidden from people they are closest to? Even after forty or fifty years of marriage, do people still hide the sides of themselves they don't want their spouses to see? Are some secrets never meant to be shared?

Sometimes I think about Brad and all of the songs he's written and wonder what they would sound like if he didn't have to hold anything back. How would the lyrics change? Are his songs his journal to the world or only a glimpse on the surface of something deeper?

If we all opened up the truest parts of ourselves—the parts we're too cautious to reveal—would everyone accept who we are, even down to our greatest faults?

Or would we all be terrified?