Dear Myself,

I know that makes no sense. Dear... Myself? But when I opened the little notebook, my first instinct was to write 'Dear Diary'. Then I remembered that it wasn't, in fact, a diary. According to Therapist, it's a journal. I'm supposed to use it to write down moments that make me feel 'big swells of emotions'. I don't know why they had to phrase it like that. A swell of emotions? Bruises swell. And, when they swell, they're all purple and lumpy and thick with agony. I would know.

Anyways.

Welcome, Myself, to my journal of swelling emotions.

Whatever that's supposed to be.

Dear Myself,

So, first of all, writing beside the bookshelf was an awful idea. The stack of books on the corner of the desk keeps taunting me with its fantastical titles and swooping fonts. So, forgive me, I'm going to leave you be for just a few moments.

Therapist says reading is good. They love letting me discuss my favourite stories.

"As long as you don't always use it for an escape."

When they said that, I had laughed.

What are books, if not escapes?

Silly Therapist. They clearly haven't read Percy Jackson yet.

Dear Myself,

I'm back! And it's only been a few hours!

Therapist was right – emotions do swell. I felt it. It was like the universe was falling away, like I was wearing a shroud of darkness as some sort of black cloak and I had shaken it off for half a breath. For the first time in a long time, I was breathing real air.

It all began when I finished the sixth chapter of the book I had picked up. The young girl in it had fallen in love! This gorgeous man with sweeping golden hair and dark eyes (the author never specified what colour – dark green? Dark blue? Dark purple?) had helped her move her boat onto the lake edge.

Their dialogue! It was almost awkward to read, because she was so shy and he was so flustered. And, in my heart, I felt something unfurl.

I had to look it up. According to Google, it's just brain chemicals – something called the amygdala going hello!

And yet, it felt so good.

It felt real.

Dear Myself,

I just read a book about toads. A full trilogy.

I know it sounds ridiculous, but I swear – they were actually quite good. It featured this toad with a short leg, called Limpy because he... well, limps. He travelled across the world, jumping from tractors and trucks, somehow sneaking into a suitcase to get inside a plane.

When the poor toad got trapped inside a housefire though, my goodness... I felt it again. The swell.

This one was different. It was like a very cold wind was ripping through me, scabbing my bones.

Limpy was okay, don't worry.

But for a while, I wasn't.

Dear Myself,

I've read another book! I think this is my seventh since I first started writing in here. It was about a politician. She was very tired.

Nothing interesting had happened, and yet, I felt the swell again.

It was heavy. It was painful.

And I realised that it's because I was tired too.

Dear Myself,

I saw Therapist today. They asked how the journal was going, and of course, I just showed them. I do much better drawing and writing than I do talking – the words just come out all twisted and raw in my voice sometimes.

They seemed really impressed when they saw all the words. They said they wouldn't read it, especially if I didn't want them to, but I didn't care. I just pushed it in their face.

Then, the swell came again.

Because, as they read the words, I saw the light in their eyes dim. It was only for a second, but I saw it.

Disappointment.

I had failed them.

Of course I had. That's all I ever do.

"This is great progress," they were saying. "But did you spend all night just reading? Have you gotten any sleep?"

I felt a small pinch of indignation.

They hadn't told me that I was supposed to sleep as well.

Then again, maybe it was one of those 'implied' things that I was just supposed to know. Of course I didn't know. I always miss these things.

Therapist must have seen my deflating shoulders. Their smile brightened almost immediately. "Oh, don't worry, you're doing great! I think you just need to focus more on the outside world. Books are great, dear. But what are some things that happen outside them?"

Okay.

No more books.

I should have known that was the wrong thing to do.

Dear Myself,

I know that makes no sense. Dear... Myself? But when I opened the notebook, my first instinct was to write 'Dear Diary'. Then I remembered that it wasn't, in fact, a diary. According to Therapist, it's a journal. I'm supposed to use it to write down moments that make me feel 'big swells of emotions'. I don't know why they phrased it like that. A swell of emotions? Bruises swell. And, when they swell, they're all purple and lumpy and thick with agony. I would know.

Anyways.

Welcome, Myself, to my journal of swelling emotions.

Whatever that's supposed to be.

Dear Myself,

I went to the store today!

It was the same as every Sunday, but I did feel a swell. When I went to the counter, cash in hand, the shopkeeper smiled at me.

A real, sweet smile. Like he was actually kind of happy to see me. Like he didn't care about the scars on my neck and arms.

Maybe it was only the smile they reserve for customers to bring them back, though. I've read all about it – salespeople are clever like that. They try to reel you in with their sweet grins and bright eyes, just so you feel cradled and warmed and cared for. Then, once you've blown all your money on them, they don't give a damn about you. They just snort at your pitiful, wiry body and laugh about how pathetic you are.

I digress.

This one, though, had seen that I forgot my bag. So, with a tilt of his head, he said, "Do you want me to help carry those bottles to your car?"

Don't worry. I said no and hastily rushed back to my apartment.

Still, there was a swell. A gentle one. Like a dewdrop on grass in the morning.

Dear Myself,

The bus driver snapped at me for not having enough change.

I should have known they'd raise the fare. I should have known.

I failed. Again.

I don't think I need to tell you the swell today. Just imagine a dull ache. It's familiar. But it still burns.

Dear Myself,

I went back to the store. The shopkeeper saw the bottles again, and this time, his brow arched and he didn't offer to help me.

So, clearly, I had been right. The smile from last time had been fake.

I should have known.

As I was leaving, though, I saw a newspaper.

Ten year anniversary of...

A swell.

...the orphanage being burnt do—

The swell.

Dear Myself,

I know that makes no sense. Dear... Myself? But when I opened the notebook, my first instinct was to write 'Dear Diary'. Then I remembered that it wasn't a diary. According to Therapist, it's a journal. I'm supposed to use it to write down moments that make me feel 'big swells of emotions'. I don't know why they phrased it like that. A swell of emotions? Bruises swell. And, when they swell, they're thick with agony. I would know.

Anyways.

Welcome, Myself, to my journal of swelling emotions.

Whatever that's supposed to be.

Dear Myself,

Today's swell came in colours. I don't know how to describe it. It was like the sky was paler, my hands were greyer, and the meat at the butcher was pink instead of a meaty, fleshy red.

Then, when the man handed me my back of chicken, he gave me a little wink and threw in a little bar of chocolate.

I instantly took it out and handed it back to him. When he insisted I have it, I scowled and demanded that I paid for it.

He raised his hands in surrender.

Still, thinking back on it, I realised that when he had first put the chocolate in my bag – before the alarm and panic had seized my every bone – I had seen it.

Real, bright, radiant.

Colour.

Dear Myself,

I was walking into the apartment complex. A lady was in front of me, and she paused by the door.

Then, she held it open for me. She even smiled, though she didn't utter a word to me.

Sunshine. Pouring through my veins.

Dear Myself,

I was back in the shops, only to take my two quick bottles and go. Before I had even picked up the bottle, a song played above me.

It wasn't anything I'd heard before – but wow! Her voice was like silk – no, it was richer than that. Velvet. There was a piano in the background, tinkling, and then the percussion came and it was this pulsing wave of magic and light and beauty.

I started dancing. Throwing my hands out. Shifting from one foot to the other. My hips swishing from side to side, and my head flicking back and forth.

There was laughter from someone near me. And I stopped.

What had gotten into me?

The swell was dissolving, just as quickly as it had come. Within a second, though, a man was racing to my side, and his gentle hand grabbed my elbow.

He was dancing, too, then. He looked ridiculous – his head was not moving in time, and he was doing these weird jerks with his hands. First, he was squatting and pretending he was snorkelling underwater, and next he was doing something that made someone yell out, "The sprinkler!"

The chorus stirred around the room again.

And I couldn't help it. Even though he looked absolutely absurd, I joined him.

We held each other and danced, and no one told us to stop. Some people clapped, even.

I was flying. I was flying higher and higher and higher, and nothing could bring me down.

Dear Myself,

I had emptied the bottles a bit too quickly, but that's okay. When the doorbell rang, I was still able to stumble to the entrance.

Then, I froze up.

I hadn't ordered pizza. In fact, I hadn't had anyone knock on my door for years – the only people who had were the social services people, and they always scheduled it months in advance. I spied the calendar through the corner of my eye, and sure enough, that visit was marked for two weeks from today.

Not today.

"Hello?" a small voice was saying. "Is anyone home?"

A child. Only a child. Yet, it filled me with dread.

Children were stupid. They made stupid little mistakes all the time. And people always forgave them. Because they're kids. Even if people got hurt and died, it was alright.

Because they are kids.

It was an accident.

I opened the door and glared at the small girl. She held out a box to my face.

"Cookies!" she was chirping. "We just moved in, and my mum said..."

She kept chattering away, but I stared at the box.

"I don't want it," I cut in.

The girl frowned. For a moment, she looked like she had no idea what to even do – like someone saying no had been so bizarre, so unexpected, that she had forgotten how to turn on her heel and leave.

"It's cookies, though," she said. "Everyone likes cookies."

She held them out, but I only shook my head.

My face was paling. My hands were shaking.

It was swelling.

"Go away."

She pressed them into my hands. "Not until you take them."

And it swelled.

I snatched the box. Tossed it at her. The corner hit her face – I saw blood.

Red.

So much red.

Trickling down her face.

And I was reaching out, but not to help, no, of course not. I was grabbing her throat, but then her mother was there, shrieking, calling for her husband, and then everyone was rushing out of their doors because I was screaming, too. I was crying. Howling.

But I had the child in my hands.

And this time I wasn't letting go.

Dear Myself,

I know that makes no sense. But when I opened the book, my first instinct was to write 'Dear Diary'. But, according to Therapist, it's a journal. I'm supposed to use it to write down moments that make me feel 'big swells of emotions'. I don't know why they phrased it like that. A swell of emotions? Bruises swell. I would know.

Dear Myself,

"I know this is taking a dive into the deep end, but do you feel ready to talk about the fire?"

Those were the first words Therapist said to me today.

I gave them a funny look. "What fire?"

"The fire. The accident—"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

They looked frustrated, their brows furrowed, and their skin lined with creases. But I was frustrated too. What on earth were they talking about? I'd been seeing Therapist for three whole years, and not once had we spoken about a fire. Even in this journal, which they had given me on the very first day, I didn't see anything about a fire.

I flicked the pages in front of them to show my evidence. They only waved it away.

"What about the incident with the child from last month? Do you feel ready to talk about that?"

"What?"

They clicked their tongue. "The girl who had brought you cookies—"

Again, I scoffed.

I was starting to think they're the ones that need some help. They were literally pulling stories out of their arse.

"Let's talk about the man who danced with you, then," they said, sighing. "You enjoyed speaking about that. Remember?"

This time, I laughed.

What man?

"I haven't danced in years," I explained. "I have no clue what you're talking about."

They seemed stunned. "Really? You wrote it down in your..."

"No?" I held up the journal for them. "Have a look."

Tentatively, they reached for it and pried the pages open. Frowned. Closed it again. Examined the thickness of the spine, then leafed through the pages again.

When they opened it, this time, and paused at the first page – which was only filled halfway – they placed the notebook down and rubbed their face wearily.

"Have you been ripping pages ou—"

Dear Myself,

I'm supposed to use this to write down moments that make me feel 'big swells of emotions'. Bruises swell. I would know. 

This was written for avadel's short story competition! 

The prompt was: 

"Your pen lies forlorn on the desk, and you push back. The stack of books on the corner of the desk taunts you with its fantastical titles and swooping fonts. Your page is blank." 

I think the main thing that kept going through my head was the image of the blank page. (: