I look at these pages, stained and crumpled, and do not connect with this girl. The thoughts of someone so young and tortured haphazardly spilled across the lines. My name is on the front and my handwriting fills the spaces, but these are not my memories. For whatever reason I no longer remember that child and the more I read the more disconnected I feel. It is as though I have been handed someone else’s childhood and told to make it my own. But regardless of how separated I feel as I go through this journal, I find my tears running onto the page.
Four years ago I was on this couch, writing in this book. How could so much have changed? Even the feel of the pages between my fingers feels foreign, could this truly have belonged to me? I know I should stop, I am already overwhelmed, but I find myself compelled to understand what truly happened to this child. What went so wrong that her whole life seemed to fade out of existence? Was she ever just an innocent child, excited with the wonders the future held? These words are making me question who I am, where I came from and what I’ve done, but I feel like they are questions that can never be answered.
I want nothing more than to tell her I’m sorry; I’m sorry that I wasn’t strong enough and I’m sorry that I couldn’t save her. No matter how much I try, this child is no more. She is kept within the pages of old photo albums and journals, she is no longer part of who I am.