#dearjessicasdiary

Dear Jessica's diary...

I'm so tired.

I'm so tired of feeling tired.

I'm tired of this endless loop of washing dishes and wiping down surfaces, of watching him sleep all the fucking time, mouth gaping wider than a dead fish.

Sometimes I have dreams. Last night, I dreamed of a red-haired Peter Pan saved me from a burning hell-beast, and about 20 minutes ago, I dreamed of packing a bag and running away from this boring hell.

Little parts of me wilt and die inside, to think that this might be the rest of my life, but I'm so tired from picking up his socks, washing his dishes and watching him sleep.

I can't even remember the last time enticing hands gently stroked their way up and down my body. But there are too many memories of him and his stupid puppy dog eyes, asking me to rub cream into his stick-thin legs, his black curly hairs sticking to me afterwards.

I feel the bile rising in my throat just thinking about it.

Sometimes I think I'm just wasting away, waiting for him to wake up.

Dear Jessica’s Diary,

Today is grey and rainy. Part of my insides cry with the sky, the other wishes for lightning and window-shaking thunder. Tomorrow I'm hoping the sun might come out. 

There’s a butter yellow paint stain on my arm that teases me with a painting upstairs that looked perfect in my head, but my hand somehow made it muddy, messy and weird. 

Time seems to be running away from me, and sometimes I feel breathless in my attempts to catch-up, but I’m always a few steps behind. 

The cold winds that have bought in the rain and the clouds have also bought in another hidden gem, a tiny spark of motivation. It flickers brighter with each ‘freelance writer looking for work’ posting, and begins a steady flame as I flick through Gardener’s ‘Art Through The Ages’, jotting down scribbled notes about symbolism and hidden messages mixed in with Medieval brush strokes. There's even a soft whisper of feeling like an imposter, the devil on my shoulder laughing as my typing hand begins to lose its momentum.

Watching the sun filter in through my window, another hot and sweaty summer day seems to loom before me. The alarm clock says 10.30 am, and there's a part of my inside that kicks me, a light berating for being lazy and unproductive. 

As if I've wasted half of my day.

The demon on my shoulder whispers that it doesn't matter, I don't do anything during the day anyway. The angel on the other shoulder weeps and begs me to at least brush my teeth this morning. I can indulge them both.

My reflection in the bathroom mirror greets me as soon as I quietly pad into the cool, tiled room, trying my best not to wake my boyfriend. My face looks tired and crumpled from being smooshed into a pillow, there are bags under my eyes nearly big enough for the weekly shopping, and my hair is sticking up in strange places around my hairline. The air smells slightly sour from the kitty litter that should have been cleaned out a day ago, and there's really no reason that it wasn't done. It’s the first thing to go onto my mental to-do list.

After brushing my teeth and hair, I plod downstairs, and straight to the kitchen for a cup of coffee. The angel is sitting on top of the microwave, telling me that a glass of water is much better first thing. I flick her away and stick my favourite mug into the microwave, leaning against the counter while I wait, and looking at the world outside the kitchen window. Another disgustingly hot and sunny day, in a quiet beach town on the Spanish coast. 

The demon grins at me, as I cast aside ideas of drinking my coffee outside in the fresh air, and helps me to balance my phone as I get my hot mug out of the microwave, stirring in an obscene amount of instant coffee and cheap white sugar. 

The cool living room, with the shutters still drawn somehow seems like a better option than the garden, and catching up on last night's episode of Love Island first thing in the morning feels like I'll enjoy it more than drinking my coffee outside in silence. 

Before I know it, it's 2pm. I only moved once from the comfy seat in the living room, to go back upstairs and get my little, wooden smoking box. The thick smoke from the joint entwined in my fingers curls up around my head, and the demon laughs appreciatively at the halo it momentarily gives me.