One Year, Two Years.
Well, I did it. I went an entire year without posting to LJ. I suppose this marks the end of an era.
It certainly marks a change in me.
I was nineteen when I started writing this livejournal. I was brash, mercurial, fraught, and a little bit fearless. For years, I let this be a window into my triumphs and failures, my love affairs, my break ups, my hopes and fears. I let all of me hang open in the sunshine, almost daring the world to cast its judgement.
I'm thirty-two now. Still occasionally brash, mercurial, fraught, but also more measured, centered and shy. Somewhere along the way, I started telling my stories over beers in Lower East Side bars, or over bowls of noodles on St. Marks place, instead of writing them here. I'm forgetful, so I'm sure I've lost some gems along the way, but in recent years the thought of strangers reading my innermost thoughts has been unnerving instead of exciting.
It's been a hell of a year, of a season, of a month and a week, but some stories aren't wholly mine to tell and other stories hurt too much and still other stories don't have proper endings yet. I fear the only thing I can say with confidence in this black-and-white type is that I'm alive and I'm trying to do my best.
I looked over the last three entries. One is from the days after Hurricane Sandy, a single line reassuring the outside world that we were safe at home in Bushwick. Another is a post from a little over a year ago, about the novel I was writing, the one that was nearly finished.
I finally finished it earlier this month. Writing that book has been one of the biggest, hardest things I've ever done. I put so much of myself into writing it that I'm afraid to consider what I lost along the way, but it's done now. I sent the draft to five trusted friends to get some outside impressions of what's working and what isn't. I had dinner with the first one to finish it last night and my brain is already working on the next round of editing.
An entry for the book. An entry for the hurricane.
An entry for Becca.
It's two years today since Becca left the playground.
I know where I was sitting, exactly, when I heard the news. I didn't believe it at first.
Sometimes I still don't believe it. Every now and then, I find myself checking her twitter to see if she's posted something new. Then I remember. I find myself scrolling to her name in the contacts in my phone, making sure it's still there even if she'll never be there to take the call.
Becca has become a force in my life, even in her absence.
I used to turn down friends' invitations to dinners and parties. I avoided social situations when I felt sad or fragile or small. I still do, sometimes, when it's just too much to smile and pretend to be human, but now I ask myself: if this person died before I saw them again, would I feel guilty that I didn't take this opportunity?
I call it the Becca Test and it's made me leave my apartment countless times in the past two years.
I wish I hadn't learned that particular lesson.
Today it's been two years of a world without Becca and today my book is in the hands of five trusted friends but fucking hell it should have been six.
Miss you, pal.
Love,
Beth
It certainly marks a change in me.
I was nineteen when I started writing this livejournal. I was brash, mercurial, fraught, and a little bit fearless. For years, I let this be a window into my triumphs and failures, my love affairs, my break ups, my hopes and fears. I let all of me hang open in the sunshine, almost daring the world to cast its judgement.
I'm thirty-two now. Still occasionally brash, mercurial, fraught, but also more measured, centered and shy. Somewhere along the way, I started telling my stories over beers in Lower East Side bars, or over bowls of noodles on St. Marks place, instead of writing them here. I'm forgetful, so I'm sure I've lost some gems along the way, but in recent years the thought of strangers reading my innermost thoughts has been unnerving instead of exciting.
It's been a hell of a year, of a season, of a month and a week, but some stories aren't wholly mine to tell and other stories hurt too much and still other stories don't have proper endings yet. I fear the only thing I can say with confidence in this black-and-white type is that I'm alive and I'm trying to do my best.
I looked over the last three entries. One is from the days after Hurricane Sandy, a single line reassuring the outside world that we were safe at home in Bushwick. Another is a post from a little over a year ago, about the novel I was writing, the one that was nearly finished.
I finally finished it earlier this month. Writing that book has been one of the biggest, hardest things I've ever done. I put so much of myself into writing it that I'm afraid to consider what I lost along the way, but it's done now. I sent the draft to five trusted friends to get some outside impressions of what's working and what isn't. I had dinner with the first one to finish it last night and my brain is already working on the next round of editing.
An entry for the book. An entry for the hurricane.
An entry for Becca.
It's two years today since Becca left the playground.
I know where I was sitting, exactly, when I heard the news. I didn't believe it at first.
Sometimes I still don't believe it. Every now and then, I find myself checking her twitter to see if she's posted something new. Then I remember. I find myself scrolling to her name in the contacts in my phone, making sure it's still there even if she'll never be there to take the call.
Becca has become a force in my life, even in her absence.
I used to turn down friends' invitations to dinners and parties. I avoided social situations when I felt sad or fragile or small. I still do, sometimes, when it's just too much to smile and pretend to be human, but now I ask myself: if this person died before I saw them again, would I feel guilty that I didn't take this opportunity?
I call it the Becca Test and it's made me leave my apartment countless times in the past two years.
I wish I hadn't learned that particular lesson.
Today it's been two years of a world without Becca and today my book is in the hands of five trusted friends but fucking hell it should have been six.
Miss you, pal.
Love,
Beth