This isn't my first journal.
It's my second. There would've been countless others I'm sure but it's not like I'm rolling in notebooks anymore. That used to be a real problem I had. I was a cute stationery hoarder. And I was still in that mindset when I wrote my first diary.
The stupid thing was full of 'dear diary' entries. I think it was supposed to be the rough draft of a memoir, which I could publish and be a star once everything calmed down and we could all get back to normal. Back to malls, back to shopping, back to concerts, back to pep rallies, back to college entry exams, back to diets, back to Teen Vogue. But that wasn't normal anymore.
I wasn't thinking in terms of a new normal, and that's exactly what this was. So it was me talking about my plans for when everyone came home and the government stepped in with a vaccine. Where I wanted to go to college, movies I'd really liked, school gossip...it's all gone now.
This was the new normal. Instead of malls I've got woods. I don't shop, I scavenge. I don't remember the last time I heard music. I get excited over finding Spam, not football games. I'd welcome the stress of an exam over the stress of not knowing if I'll eat again. I would still like a stack of Teen Vogues, though. Can't lie about that.
Anyway...I burned that first attempt. I killed it along with the old me. She wasn't long for this new world, so it's okay. And I'm still me, I'm not trying to be all dark and gritty and 'I haven't heard that name in a long time' but I just needed to evolve. You have to become more than you thought you could ever be to make it in this world. You have to accept that we're animals same as badgers and bears and deer and dogs and whatever. And you gotta either find a way to bury and protect that civilised person inside you, or you hold a funeral for them.
And I did the latter. I buried the old, useless thing I'd become and burned her memoir. I kind of regret that, because I feel like my memories of how things used to be are slipping away like water through my fingers. It would have been nice, I think, to have those old thoughts, those ridiculous priorities, to look back on. I don't want to become some grizzled, salty mountain hag and I think having that softer side to look back on would help anchor me.
Dear Diary,
Today I had a regret. I wish I hadn't killed myself.
YOU ARE READING
The Survible
Teen Fiction...the girl is gone, but the record lives on... Collected writings of a young girl living alone in the wake of a terrible public health catastrophe. The author was never found. They consist primarily of journal entries, experiment notes, recipes...
