I set the journal on my lap and dapped my eyes with a tissue. Grandma had a lot of pain, rage & hope in her heart. Much more hope than I could say for myself. I wished she’d shared it with more people. I sat, staring out the window. The clouds had begun to release snow showers. For the first time in forever, snow arrived before Thanksgiving. I just knew people would be out sledding tomorrow, and lovers would drink hot eggnog and rum. I took in Grandma’s writings as something bigger than myself, something bigger than what she believed them to be. These journal entries paint a picture of who she was and what she believed. But every bend and curve of life is what I’d been used to. Something about Grandma told me she didn’t give a fuck what anyone thought or why they thought it.
There’s some chance this is proof, and not even my words break me down because I’m so sick of all that I was afraid of, wondering why I took life so seriously. I’m taking life one day at a time, but nothing gold can stay, and nothing about it is bound for success.
I’ve been a patient girl, waiting in the back of the waiting room, not anymore, though. That was the old Hannah. Nope. This Hannah won’t give a fuck what people think or even wonder why they disagree with me because in the end, does it even matter? I mean, everything matters in its own way, but hatred, does it even matter what people think? If they hate me, they hate me.
I’ve made a habit out of getting under my own skin, seeking to keep my secret safe—a secret safe under lock and key.
I picked up the journal to continue to read.