29 January 1988
27 years old
Living in London
I don’t know if it’s a terrible foreboding feeling I have about seeing/hearing from Tony today or simply wishful thinking. Am I a bit psychic or just totally psychotic? Is keeping away from Tony the brave or cowardly thing to do? I’ve been very depressed all week. Just when I thought I saw a light at the end of the tunnel there was an avalanche and I’ve become enclosed in spiritual darkness. He’s done more than just wound my heart, he’s scared my soul. I’ll look back on this entry and think how melodramatic I am – true, I see that even now, but I also sense this hurt, this episode affecting me not just all of my life, but into my next.
I need to exorcise my grief, my life. On the bus home thought very seriously of beginning a book, a novella, with pictures, cuttings, words in bold and a second colour, a minor work of art. Stemming from an idea I had years ago and a feeling of wanting to write since I was, how old? 8, 9, 10? I could dedicate it to my aunty Alexandra, who bought me my first diary to record my visit to Greece. Or to Tony, without whose bastardness, I’d never felt low enough to write so much.
Tony said I speak as though I were underlining some of my words. I always thought I wrote as if I were speaking. No flourishes, detailed descriptions, just straight forward chat. I’m SO UNHAPPY. All my usual excuses are invalid. It can’t be PMT, I’m taking extra vitamin B, there isn’t a full moon, I just miss Tony.
Many thanks to Monica at Monica's Tangled Web, for the use of this image.