Dear Diary:
I want our own place. I want to be able to scream my fucking head silly with frustration and all this negative fear inside without having people on either side of me think that I’m just a raving psycho and call the men in white coats to come take me away. I want a place I can go into the woods and release this black tar that’s sticking to my heart, binding and choking it, without waking Kat through the paper-thin floors and walls. I want a place for all of our everything. I want a place of grounding, a real home, a base, bedrock, wombspace. I want my baba back. I want her to tell me everything’s going to be okay, because I tell myself it will be, but I don’t believe me because I know that I don’t know that. There’s a picture of her holding me as an infant of maybe at 7 or 8 months, in the front yard of her house. I want to remember that. All of my memories are of detachment from people, no hugs, no snuggling or nestling, no comforting. I’m sure there was some, there, but maybe that’s one of those things I can’t believe, either. I hold Kat a lot because I want her to have memories of that because maybe that’s a good memory to wrap yourself in when you’re all alone and really scared and you know your teddy bear can’t soak up any more tears and you feel naked to the world and vulnerable and raw like a newborn kitten dumped out of a moving car onto a gravel road.

Gawd, listen to me. I. Me. I. Me. It’s all about me, right? Suck it up, shut up, and move on, Melanie. Your story’s almost over and hers is just beginning, so give her a good start.

I’m glad we had this talk.

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