Bad Kid Writing, Again

Content warning for homophobia.

The following journal excerpts are not to be read too much into. The groupings here are more humourous than accurate.

Every time I go to Ottawa I read my collection of journals which I wrote from 6 to 21 years old. I find the revisiting of elementary and highschool more bittersweet each year. Ages 12 to 14 are particularly sordid. Youthful exuberance is replaced with paranoia. That had to come from somewhere. It's not useful to speculate. Turns out reconstructing yourself as a victim instead of a Percy-Jackson-type protagonist is less validating than one might think. I hit the nail on the head back when I was 14, and identified my greatest fear as "losing control". I feel really sympathetic towards children, maybe because I recognize the lack of control they have over any aspect of their life. All the convincing myself that I was a strategic, intrinsically cynical manipulator was a lie. I lived most of my days afraid. Things are different now, of course, with covid being a conveniently placed dividing line. For one, I've re-entered my uneventful era, only this time I've outgrown the hunger for more. I have the type of instincts only experience could give me. I am independent and living away from my parents. I know how to look out for myself a little better.

There are of course good moments to be found if I look for them. It's sweet how keen I was to record socializing with others, how excited I was by that world and how I didn't want to forget anything about it. The thrill of being included was intoxicating and often overwhelming. I wrote reflections on books that have informed my thinking: Catcher in the Rye, This Side of Paradise, Meditations, The Perks of Being a Wallflower. I remember moments that I should cherish but often forget. I am forced into nostalgic remembering that is sometimes tinted with further fond memories. It's more common, however, for my entries to be rife with anxieties too profound for a teenager. I more often than not feel broken when the thrill of socializing is not dependable. I am pessimistic, despite my best intentions. These reflections are self-pitying, and are seldom helpful. I'll stew in self-pity while in Ottawa, and it doesn't do me good. I think it's time to divorce my childhood from who I am now. I'll exist as Abe, and will have existed since I introduced myself as Abe to the world. These snippets are stories from someone else - someone eager to please, enthusiastic yet cautious, always on the brink of being hurt. I'd like to get to a place where I feel sympathy towards this person and then I close my journals and stop thinking about them.

Nerd

Nine Years Old:

Ten Years Old:

Quirky

Nine Years Old:

Fourteen Years Old:

Autism

Nine Years Old:

Ten Years Old:

Eleven Years Old:

Fourteen Years Old:

Trans

Eleven Years Old:

Fourteen Years Old