Introduction. July 12 2025
When I was a shyly aspiring writer in my mid-20s, all of my writing was destroyed. Diaries since I was ten years old, stories, books of poems, everything I had ever typed on my typewriter, and the beginning of a first novel.
After a while, I slowly started writing again. But instead of filling whole books with tiny neat handwriting as before, I couldn’t leave the notebooks in peace. I ripped pages from their bindings almost as quickly as I’d written them. I had a wild need to open the cover of every notebook to a blank page, had trouble writing more than a sentence or two, and felt destabilized at seeing my own words.
Around 2014, I began to collect some of the torn pages and type some passages into a Google Doc called “DAILIES”. More than a decade later, still compulsively shredding my notebooks, I was diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder. The psychiatrist told me that it had probably been undiagnosed since my late teens. My first reaction was deep and intense grief. My second reaction was: Fuck it, we ball.
Remembering life’s short and then you die, and also, who gives a shit, I began to feel that I didn’t need to categorize everything I did as sorry, corrupt, and insufficient, because really, what did it matter? Fuck fear, and fuck self-hatred, and fuck my ongoing belief that I am fundamentally shitty. As an experiment in low-stakes, unapologetic self-disclosure, I decided to start posting my remaining journals in my own pocket of the internet. I will never be gracious enough to justify the publication of these entries. But, I will proceed from 2014 and might one day catch up to the present.
I am not grand and glowing, as I sometimes think. Not lowly and unworthy, as I sometimes think. I’m just another person.
Thanks for stopping by. I’m glad you’re here.