October 16, 2002
Delicate
In this hour, can I choose between honesty and tact? What is tact? Can I opt for something more, something less?
I poured out my heart to paper this morning, more than ignoring my World History lecture on the spread of Buddhism. Fissures appeared in my logic and they spread to spill it all. I won't do that here. What is appropriate, in this context? For all the eyes and ears of the world to see?
You know me. Ever dramatic.
There was no pressure, and the moment was interrupted by my having long thoughts about it. I looked at him, and wanted it to be then.
I wish I would've gotten up and walked away instead of laying there in his arms and making up my mind about it. My mind was made up. I wanted it.
I wish I would've gotten up and walked away. Then it wouldn't have happened.
First times are always bad, they say. It wasn't all bad. Not all. But some.
Just violent. More like something that happens to you as opposed to participatory.
I asked him to stop and when he did I started to cry.
You told me not to do it unless I thought I could laugh afterwards. Well, I didn't think that I would cry.
Being a virgin didn't define me before. This doesn't have to define me now.
I wanted to give it to him and am glad it is done. Now that it is done I don't have to do it again. At least not that nervous-horrible way again.
I will do it again. Not soon, I don't think. Not too soon.
I cried and he held me and promised to do so as long as I needed him to.
He sang to me, and the tears that had dried started afresh.
I love him, and I would never have done that with anyone else. I would do anything for him, I think.
Why do I feel like I owe an honest account? Is this for me or the rest of the world? I don't want pity. I didn't cry because I mourn what is now gone. Like I said. It wasn't all bad. I was scared. I was wound up.
I don't have anyone to talk to about this.
Just myself.
And I have no idea how I should feel, how I shouldn't.
It doesn't seem real, now. It didn't seem real at the time. It's serious and yet it's not. It's not important, it's not everything. It's just something.
I want to shatter misconceptions. Especially my own.
One day I am going to write a book about reality and myth. How interchangeable they can be, how false they can be. Both of them. All the time and none of the time.
It'll be better.
I'm feeling better.
It's just a shock really. I'm waiting for it to wear off.
You know, this isn't who I am. It's a little piece of me, a small, insignificant carnality. And this worry? This isn't me, either. Prevalent though it may be, it is not me.
I am Jillian riding in the passenger seat and holding his hand. I am Jillian taking down quotes. I am Jillian listening to Howie Day and basking in the glow of Christmas lights. I am Jillian wearing scarves and hoop earrings. I am Jillian inadvertent. I am Jillian conspicuous and inconspicuous. I am Jillian seemingly impulsive but teeming inside. I am Jillian in love and Jillian alone. I am Jillian who can coax herself through anything. I am Jillian that deludes herself into thinking she needs only Jillian.
I am Jillian that is his, and Jillian who has him.
That was just one more way, and, as far as I am concerned, not the most important.
astera at 10:52 a.m.