The Prose of Grief

Dear Diary,

Tonight I am talking to you because I am too vulnerable and shy to think about the people who might be reading this.
I am a little lonely, and a lot scared.

Sometimes I think I am an adult, but then I realize that people can still crush me and bring me down as easily as if I were a child. I only want to be loved; I find myself unconsciously striving to grain people's affections, and if they are cold to me, I wonder at the fault in myself. I withdraw, and pull back, certain that there is something wrong with me. Maybe I am missing a part, or some little mechanism that would make me normal.

I cry too easy. My feelings are injured quickly. I love suddenly and loyally until someone breaks my heart, and then the scar hurts so much I shut it away. My emotions run high and low and every way in between; I feel ashamed of myself for these things. Should I pull in my emotion? Should I restrain myself to laugh, talk, love and cry in moderation? I never say the right thing. I stand in a crowd, at a loss for what to do.

I have found someone who loves me despite these things, but I wonder. Am I good enough for him? Will my quick tears, childish nature and sudden temper push him away? Will he wake up five, ten, fifteen years from now and feel like he is trapped with the cracked shell of the joyous woman he once knew?

I am not good enough, is the cry of my heart. Not a good enough daughter to the parents I adore. Not a good enough sister to the best siblings a girl could have. Not a good enough friend to those I claim for my own.
Not a good enough woman to be his.

No matter what I do, it is too little, or too much. I am all cried out, dear diary, and I know not where to turn. My grief is like a stream. Deep and cold and steadily going forward.

For what have I to grieve? I am only a selfish little girl who looks inward at herself and sees someone small and mean and unworthy of care. My eyes burn with tears but to what end? In the morning I will wake, and it will be quiet, and I will still be myself.

I am eternally flawed but craving, craving to be at peace.

And I say with David, "be merciful to me, O Lord, for I am in distress; my eyes grow weak with sorrow, my soul and my body with grief"

'Quel