Archival Entries

Before this, I wrote a diary…

July 9th, 2018

I was riding on the tractor with my grandpa as he mowed the lawn. It was and will always be a huge piece of land to me. Years later, I found out it was only maybe one acre. Which amazes me even more for many reasons.

The two crab apple…? Crab apple trees that were curiously planted at the end of our land were coming up. I don’t know the exactness, but I reached up to grab from the tree. Then, in slow motion, my grandpa’s cigarette collided with my wrist. Instant pain. I was shocked. I don’t know. I still don’t know.

I can’t remember everyone’s reaction, maybe I’ll ask my mom when she wakes up. It was my first and last boil. My grandpa was probably frustrated I had tried to grab from the tree; I never expected to accidentally meet his cigarette.

I know he felt terrible it happened. He never, ever hurt us. He made my mom eat tobacco and once he bonked me on the head with a tin foil package, but he never, ever hurt me.

June 18, 2018

why is this in the news? why are they showing this? why is this news? can they show this? why are they giving this so much attention? why aren’t they giving this enough attention? why are you in the news? who is reading this? who thinks this is true? who reposted this? who saw the news? who didn’t check the news? who can’t forget the news? who made their profile picture the news? who is going to donate? who scrolled by the news? who clicked on it? who said something? who tweeted something? who argued? was it ever news to begin with?

july 31, 2019

to joanie

A woman at my work has cancer. I heard about it in meetings and yesterday I saw a jar on a desk. You are supposed to write encouraging notes, so that when this person is down - they can read them and smile. I thought about what I could write, but I’m just an intern. I see her balding head in the hallways; I know that she goes to chemo on her lunch hour.

I tried to think of something to write, but we’ve never spoken. What do you say to a stranger who is hurting?

You are dying of cancer, my cousin is dying of heroin. I hope you both get well soon. My friend wasn’t allowed to have pain medication before her surgery, because she overdosed once. That follows her. At least no one will tell you that you cannot have morphine.

I cried at my desk because they wouldn’t renew my prescription until I saw a doctor again, 2 hours away. I have 12 pills left, I will be dizzy after that. I dont know. Medical tragedies befall everyone - cancer seems almost routine. If I was in a better mood, I would have wrote you something nice. And you would have read it and wondered why a girl you never met is telling you the worst thing you’ve ever faced will go away. Maybe you would have been crying on the floor, feeling the weight of yourself pushing you through the kitchen tiles. You would look up for a moment, and you’d see the jar. That damn jar. You would creep up toward it, pick a pink slip out. Unravel it slowly. “I’m someone you do not know, but life is hard. I couldn’t go through what you are, and I’m sorry you work in this office every day, pretending you’re not maybe dying. I don’t know if working each day would make me feel like things are “normal.” It’s not normal to have cancer. It’s not normal to want to blow your brains out at your desk. It’s not normal to not be able to write you something simple, Joanie. I’m sorry this is the hand you got dealt, and I’m sorry that I’m not making it any better. My empathy is tied up in bank accounts and needles. Maybe someday you will read what I write, and you will understand…”

August 22nd, 2019

Nail polish, another layer I need to assimilate to.

I had a dream I walked upside down and the cruise ship I lived on always flooded.

I don’t want to mention who I dreamed about.

I started my period early and I’m waiting to go to a baseball game. My nails are still painted. I am chipping them off.

October 19th, 2019

Something good will happen for us. You’ll get a big room where you can see the roads and birds from the couch. I’ll find solace in myself. I won’t be any more deranged than I am now. I will be quietly sane.

The iPhone update made my ringer sound wrong. In a month I won’t remember the old tone. I send some emails but no reply. I watch some movies again to show my friends.