The Journal

I had always taken pride in my high standards for whom I let into my life. Was I lonely? Yes. Often. I overthought almost everything in life. Which I believed was a secret weapon, a special power, but also a curse. That's why I started journaling. Joanne suggested it might help me understand myself better, or at least help me sleep at night. I am very much a person of order, or at least, perceived order. Things need to be in their relative place.

So far, as I flick back through the previous pages to January 1st, I have sketched several daisy chains, and various "fancy" cursive takes on my full name. Truly little in the way of deep thought processing or strong emotional analysis. I did, on the 15th, detail an incident at work involving a colleague and her cheating ex making a scene. I may have got a little het up, to say the least. In my defence, he deserved the cup of tea to the chest. My manager was less supportive. She said it was not my place. "Not my place?" I exclaimed before good sense stopped me. "Do you want to face the board too?" she asked with the sternest face I'd seen. I bit my tongue, though I really hate that cu--. Never mind. Where was I? Oh yes, journaling. That became writing, just anything to avoid a blank page. I'd hate, not that it was her business, Joanne to come along and ask, "How are you getting along with it? You know...the journaling?" It was a well-meaning gift, and I could hardly say, "Actually, I've doodled about twenty scale-size meadows of daisies. Could I?"

Needless to say, my journaling was going to take a whole new, deeper direction. My life had always been a little dull. Without catastrophe, owing to the fact I rarely stepped out of my comfort zone.

Overthinking will do that to a person. Still, why should I complain when I am still alive and unscathed, at least physically. The less said about my mental health, the better.

I recently turned 30, as you will know, Journal, as I documented it a good few times in leadup to the day, on the day itself and a few weeks after it. As I reached such an important milestone, it led me to consider my lot in life and the decisions I had made.

I also became more aware of the "puppy fat" I had put on over the last decade of adulthood. Does it still count as puppy fat if the number is in double figures?

Anyway, I decided to do something about it and became a gym rat, gym bunny or whatever colloquialism works best for you, dear journal. I wish, sometimes, you could respond at these points.

I couldn't face working out with a partner. So avoided the awkward conversations with work colleagues about accountability and crash dieting. Neither did I really want a personal trainer to shout at me every time I tried to work out, or failing that, to have an affair with. Hold that thought, journal. No, definitely didn't want one of those.

Instead, I Googled the hell out of the subject and found exercise machines and workouts that would help me flatten my belly a little and accentuate my chest that is beginning to lose firmness.

Let me tell you something for nothing, journal. Don't go down the rabbit hole of looking for gym wear - there is so much to choose from. In the end I chose the most inconspicuous leggings and vest and avoided the curve accentuating designs and shocking luminous colour schemes.

The reason I decided to start journaling actually ties back in with my first trip to the gym. It was, how can I say this most delicately, embarrassing. I actually got stuck, somehow, on a treadmill because my laces got caught. What a start to my ‘get healthier’ campaign. However, it was not all bad and I shall be going back. Not least of all, because I have renewed sense of purpose in my life. I met someone. Not in that way, journal. Get your mind out of the gutter. She, yes, she is a she. All slightly ginger hair ponytailed and hanging down her back, following the gentle curve of her spine. Bluey-green eyes and a slender-but-not-impossibly-so figure.

She had the most magnetic personality. She lit up the room the moment she stepped into it and left it in darkness when she left. She had a crushing sadness that was carefully hidden by a warm and bubbly personality that instantly put you at ease.

I could tell she was holding back, even from the short conversation we had and the way she carried herself. I wanted to be her friend, her confidante.

She left before me, and I felt compelled to follow. Making sure she never saw me, I followed her as she walked home from the gym. Well, I assumed she was walking home. I have never done anything like this before but was driven by these urges to know what made such a force of nature tick. There was also a nagging sensation driving my transformation into a stalker. Am I a stalker?

Regardless, the walk to her apartment complex was nice enough. She stopped to get a bottle of water and fought off the desires of the young man behind the counter, like it was a regular occurrence. Though I don't condone that kind of behaviour, I could understand why he felt the need to compliment her so vividly.

I stayed back, tracking her to her building.

It felt strange, as I sat across the street from her apartment on a little wooden bench. I had never done anything so brazenly...well, odd. I am hesitant to say wrong, even if every moral fibre is screaming at the that this is a path I do not want to continue down. My intentions were pure. Weren't they? I wasn’t hurting anyone. At least, not yet.

It's times like these when I wish journaling was a two-way thing, an exchange, a conversation. I wish you were able to tell me when I was crossing the line.

I felt a rush through me, considering what I had just done. Successfully, I might add. For if she knew she was being followed by a complete stranger she only just met, she did a good job of hiding it.

I also felt powerful. But power was the last thing I wanted. Wasn't it? That scared me a little. My rapid heartbeat and breath had yet to calm down as the adrenaline dissipated in my system. It felt like the first time I successfully made my way across the monkey bars at the playground near my childhood home. Control issues…that was what my mother always called them. “Annie’s control issues”. I was never good at feeling helpless. But always took the path of least resistance to avoid feeling helpless.

Was this just another attempt to control what I couldn’t? To feel powerful in a world where I often felt powerless?

There were times when I tried to step out of my comfort zone and found myself spiralling. Spiralling out of control. I couldn’t cope with the stress. Even when it was caused by excitement. I once got lost while taking a group of kids from the year below me in school hiking and had a panic attack. In those fleeting moments, it felt as if the world was closing in on me and I was afraid. Even then, I was afraid of crossing lines, of stepping too far and losing control, by making the wrong choice.

Normally, people come into our lives and go just as quickly. People we meet but never form lasting bonds with or even functional acquaintanceships with.

That was, in part, why I was so invigorated. Like I had stepped outside of the realms of so-called normal and morally-sound behaviour into a strange new liminal space of the unknown where rules are seen as "suggestions".

Part of me knew I should stop, turn around, forget this ever happened. But another part—stronger, darker—urged me on.

I bit my lip as I tried to calm the storm building inside. There was no turning back. Well, except to go home for a cold shower and refresh. I wasn’t sure what my next move would be, but I knew I couldn’t just walk away. I would have to be careful not to cross that invisible line I couldn’t uncross. I knew there was a line. I could see it, faint but clear. But what harm was there in watching? In understanding?

*

Thanks for reading!

Author's Notes: Something a bit different. Epistolary about a woman. Just started writing it one day. Think it was originally for another challenge but took on a life of its own. May write more as I like the character and how she's developing.