Who do you think is going to read this? my friend asks, throwing up her hands: It’s your journals! Every little detail. Every lecherous fantasy, all your perversions, obsessions. Even dreams. Who gives a fuck? You’re not a famous person so who cares?
I would have thought that my several long marriage-like relationships, twenty years in psychotherapy, careers in architecture, modern dance, fashion, filmmaking and decades of dedication to nutrition & exercise would be foundation enough to give me a steady hand. That seems not to have happened.
I remain frightened of life, of people; any interaction provokes anxiety. Yet, I remain longing to be in the world. And in many ways, physically, I am. But inside, I’m still inside.
Who cares? my friend says. I care. I want out of my prison; out, to show myself in these journal-driven stories, where my fears and dysfunction are vivid and evident. However, I believe my writing expresses what we all feel subconsciously, then suppress, and is, therefore, interesting.
