While Karen is away, I’m kinda pottering around the house, a bit of mooching, a bit of moping, a bit of mehing.<\/p>\n
It’s more than two years since I last did this. Please excuse me if I act a little oddly.<\/p>\n
This afternoon I’ve re-read my diaries from my youth – there’s a 1988 volume and then a void until 1992. Since then, there are no gaps. And let me tell you, it’s heartbreaking. Falling in love with a different girl every day, and being destroyed when the feelings weren’t mutual. Then, when my luck changes, I am completely indifferent and treat them all like shit.<\/p>\n
I’ve started reading the diaries from my university years, but it’s much less horrifying. The pace of life picks up a lot, and it’s clear from the style of writing that I mature a lot in just the first term. I know from memory that in the second year I starting using the diary solely for appointments and reminders, and I used a separate notebook for more thoughtful writing.<\/p>\n
This is a bit of a shame, as it makes it harder to correlate what’s going on with what I’m feeling, but it was necessary as I started going into much more depth, and it wouldn’t always fit in the limited space available.<\/p>\n
***<\/p>\n
It’s later in the day, and I’ve now read all the diaries up to the end of 2002 – ie, just before I met Karen. As predicted, the latter few were very factual and to-the-point. Actually, the second half of 2001 and all of 2002 were very sparse indeed. As memory serves, I was keeping myself busy.<\/p>\n
The result of all this reading is that I’m reverting to how I was before I met Karen, though the knowledge that it is only temporary means that I’m watching it from the outside rather than the inside. Even so, it’s horrid.<\/p>\n
For one thing, I’m spending a lot of time thinking. Which sounds like a good thing, but really it’s not. I spent most of my formative years doing nothing but thinking, and I was consumed with foolish, unhelpful and paranoid thoughts. And oh looky, here they are again.<\/p>\n
Re-reading the diaries has also reminded me of the trail of devastation that I’ve left behind me. I feel the need to write a pile of letters to all the girls who I’ve treated badly over the years, to expunge this guilt that’s preventing me from going to sleep. But what would be the point? They’ve probably completely forgotten about me by now, and if I were to reopen old wounds then I’d be just making it all worse.<\/p>\n
I really thought that I’d be able to deal with all this a little bit better than I have.<\/p>\n