A Stalker's Diary

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June 6, 2019.

Introverts are not always shy and socially awkward. An overstimulated environment is just a hassle and after being dismissed, introverts just want to be alone, to be at peace and recover from past hectic events.

People with Dissociative identity disorder lost their sense of selfs so they become these persons or things that they're actually not. Terrible past experiences broke them of who they once were and in times of trauma, they not knowingly impersonate.

Anxiety, a mental disease some might call it, is in my interpretation an uncomfortable sensation having felt jeopardised. Not wanting to take things too lightly, questioning Why? and How? comes to mind.

I'm not sure where I fall on the spectrum. Sometimes I feel like I'm the only living thing in this world or maybe I'm not living, maybe I'm immortal and everything else is just here for what reason I don't know.

I'd always thought to myself in darkness, 'Why am I here? and What is my purpose?' because I have no talent, no one likes me and I'm betrayed.

Dear Diary,
I was at this empty desk in Chemistry class having my big brown food stained hoodie-that I always wear-covering my face. I felt like I was being watched. The popular girls were giggling behind me. What were they giggling at? As I was writing this, I felt so angry and I didn't know why. Was it because I was impatient through anticipating on the bell to ring or because I wanted to murder Sally?

I broke my pencil while I was writing and the tip fell to the floor close to the shoe of this guy that slouched next to me. I hadn't realised he had been sitting beside to me for the past ten months.

He's handsome. I think I have a crush on him. A crush?

He wore this white close-fitting polar shirt that displayed each layer of muscle he had and those tight cream coloured shorts did no justice hiding the thick thighs of his. My mouth dropped and the thought of the old cliche, 'Where had he been all my freaking life?' hit me in the back of my head. This then reminded me that I was environmentally awkward.

What caught me off guard the most was the fact that he kept staring at this particular person. He had his left hand supporting underneath his chin while his eyes 'razzle-dazzled' by the skinny guy sitting up front in the next column. Why was he looking at the newspaper boy, Steve? I knew Steve- sort of- and there wasn't anything about him.

"Mike Dinham," the teacher called out.

This new teacher Ms. Daley was marking the register but no one answered. She called out the name again and Sally placed her hand on the arm of the guy who sat next to me. He snapped and answered to the third time the teacher called his name.

Mike? That's his name. I'm never forgetting that name.

********

The bell rang and everyone rushed to get out of the classroom. Normally, I would wait patiently for everyone to leave but today I wanted to follow Mike. I wanted to find answers.

I followed him through the hallway. He was following Steve. Everywhere Steve went, he went and I went walking 10 feets away from each other. We almost resembled a train but this train had two railroad cars.

Steve was the cattle catcher,  I, the caboose and Mike, the coupler.

When Steve, a small built, brown haired guy stopped by his own locker to put back his books, my crush called out, "Steve." Standing side by side, Mike whispered a phrase and then I saw Steve flush.

I was curious as to what was happening between them and for the whole day, I followed them not being suspicious. I eventually wrote everything I saw and felt in this diary, my life diary. I stole this from the loss and found pile at the school where it had been resting. It had no name than just the similar felt written emotions that recaptured my mind.

Both the person who left it in the found and I were lonely, hurt and shamed without apparent reason. Embarrassed by their own appearance, we wanted to fall, fall into an endless dark hole where no one would even care if we were gone forever.

But the owner and I were both in love with someone and had a few happy days. Little things just come up and then you want to express yourself via writing.

Sometimes I might feel trapped and other times I might feel high. But after today, I wouldn't say I'm lonely. I have a quest.

I'm not stalking. I just want to fill this empty life with some excitement.

***********

Bad Days vs Good Days

I know sometimes I sound like a black hole,
and my poems are only of unhappiness,
But i swear there are good days.
It's just that if I were to put the good days and the bad days on a seesaw,
The bad days would outweigh the good ones.
Their weight would keep them planted on the ground while the good days float 3 feet above with a smile on their face and a stupid halo around their head,
No fear of the word "fat" or worrying about taking up too much space,
And sometimes the bad days would get so low, they'd take their feet out from under them and hit absolute rock bottom,
Because what's the point of that support if it won't ever be good enough?
What's the point in living a life where nothing you do is ever good enough?
But the impact of the fall is so forceful that the bad days bounce back, Causing the good days to slam onto the ground while the bad days get just a sliver of what it's like to be in the limelight.
Sometimes the darkness needs to have their moment, even if it's only a millisecond long and they end up breaking their tailbone on the fall back.
I guess what I'm trying to say is that I seem to have a lot more bad days than good, but I swear I'm okay.
I find the strength to fight back and push the darkness upwards in attempt to save it from its bad reputation.
Turn it into art.
Offer it some adjectives and shiny words to make it feel better.
Share it proudly with the world to show that not every day is a good day.
That most of the time I am a mess
With a head consumed by a thick, dark, fog
Weighing me down so low that my thoughts are being dragged in the dirt on the playground as kids stomp all over me.
Giving me black and blues that only cause me to become darker.
But I will not let the bad days bring me down.
Instead I will bring the bad days up.
Because even the longest, darkest, tunnels have an opening.
Whether it be a small crack, or a staircase of light,
It is this darkness that gives me a purpose.
It is the darkness that gives me a light.
It is the darkness that gives me a voice.

By Isabella Rizzo

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