General post-psychology era confusion

I must confess. I searched through my pile of journals until I found the right one. And I confess...I searched through the journal until I found the right month, and I read, and read, and read...and remembered writing none of it. My writing was different, then, slanted to the left. Entirely neat. The writing of a broken-hearted, lonely, and insecure girl.

I confess, I read up to and through the 16th. Actually, there was no entry on that day. No entry a week surrounding that day. Then, some entries...and pages ripped out (now shredded and decomposing in a dump somewhere). I ripped out the pages with his name, months afterward, and in doing so lost memories of the time after the 16th...what's to remember. I was only tired. Irrecoverably tired, I thought.

I can't explain myself. Everything changed, and I don't know what did it. I mean, I know what did it. But I don't know. Was it just that day? Was it him? Was it the other guy? Was it all of it? All of it that made me quit letting experience flow through and away from me, like my buddhism class taught me to do, and instead let it gather about me in leaden heaps? All of it that made me cut my hair to my chin, quit cutting myself, quit eating meat, start drinking alcohol again? All of it that made something about my eyes change...in the photo montage of my life, you can see it...they deaden or grow heavy or deepen or something and I can't figure out which event or person or group of people it was.

Or maybe it was me. Or maybe it was that book I read, or maybe it was one of the hims that made me quit writing inspirational quotes about detachment from earthly things. 'You never step in the same creek twice' means nothing anymore, not like it did then. Maybe you don't step in the same physical creek twice, but it sure as hell feels like you can step in the same emotional one. Or experiential one.

I can tell you that she's not resurrectable, that girl with the writing that slants left, who writes out her buddhist sayings and scraps of poems to tape by her desk, who meditates to allow her stress to dissipate, who climbs trees with her friends and asks a passer-by to take their picture. She's dead. Her reincarnation does eat meat now, though. And her hair is long. And her writing slants to the right.