2015 is only four months in so is it even okay to write that title already. Because 2015 is only four months and I already feel like so much has happened and there is so much left that is bound to happen. And idk, 2015 so far feels like a cocoon of a year. Everything is either too fast or two slow and there's no in between and there is a whipping back and forth in a blink of the eye. 2015, insofar, is an incredible year. And somewhere it's really strange and weird to say, because I feel happy with it content--maybe a little bored? It's a strange thing, because I know I'm happy and I do feel happy, but I always feel a lull. I feel like maybe I've exhausted my share of happiness and maybe now I don't recognize it, so I'm getting bored with it. Or maybe I'm settling, because happiness is different from contentment, and I'm good with contentment for now, we're driving along that long plateau.
I've been writing memories. And it's cheesy and horrible and how very typical "no one understands me" white girl of me. But this is what 2015 is for me. Writing those memories. Of course I write in my journal, of course, I'm always writing. But these memories are different, in a box set back, all separate from everything else. I want to be able to have these, to reach into when my happiness has been exhausted. To look at the moments I'm having now, the good ones worth writing about, to remind me in the future. Because something else has happened in 2015, a little longer than that even. I haven't cut myself, I haven't self harmed in six months. And that is such a big, big thing for me because since I've been 13 there hasn't been a real gap like that to happen. Yeah, my junior year of high school happened, but I had other ways of hurting myself then rather than just drawing blood. This is such a big thing for me. What people who don't self-harm don't realize, I think, is that it is an addiction. It's something you want to do all the time, it is something you want to happen. And the things I'm putting in that memory box, they will help with this. Because some of the memories are small and some of them are big but they will all help. They are things that keep me. things that keep me real. Things that keep me from wanting to feel the sting of the knife against my thighs. They keep me from the Keshia of last year, the one who wanted to commit suicide. I need these memories, and there is so much hoping in these memories. I don't know if they will keep me from self-harming but I hope they do. I only know that when I was thirteen I picked up a knife and starting carving letters into my legs. And the letters aren't significant anymore but the cut, the cut will always be. Because sometimes I still feel like I'm that little dumb girl and I'm still carving into myself. The significance is in that cute, it's like a rhythm or a habit. It's as easy as cracking my knuckles, something I don't even think about doing. But I know when I don't, I am so much better, and I want to keep that.
And so if writing about 2015 in short will help with that, then yes, I will do it.
Fin.
-Keshia
