Dear whoever,

7

July 28

Dear Whoever,

I've read countless motivational books and watched an absurd amount of inspirational videos. 1 thing I always take away from them, whether its a story about a woman whose beaten cancer 3 times or an athlete whose overcome a physical abnormality or a man who's survived the horrors of war, no matter what the case may be, all these stories teach me 1 thing. Nothing is in our control. Except for our mind. 

Today I feel:

Strong.

Strong enough to never take a sip of alcohol again.

Strong enough to work my ass off and get out of this dead-end job.

Strong enough to love myself, even half as much as I love her. 

I don't think I can commit to writing in this thing every day. Maybe someday. But not right now. And maybe I shouldn't underestimate my capability of maintaining a consistent habit. But I've always been a realist. And most days I don't even feel like looking at the thing. I don't want to flip through the pages 10 years from now and think about how much my life sucked. 

Assuming that my life won't suck any more in 10 years.

Assuming that I'll keep this notebook for 10 years.

Assuming that she'll still be in my life in 10 years.

I've grown to like the journal over time. And even though in the beginning I was doing it for her, I'm doing it for me now. Because I can tell it things that I can't tell anyone else. And only I will see it. That guaranteed confidentiality allows me to let my guard down even more so than when I'm alone with Quinn and the moon's light is illuminating her ethereal face in all the right places and I nearly die from the beauty. 

I shake my head to rid my mind of her. But she comes rushing back in. My hair ― which has been growing longer than I like for a while now, but Quinn likes to brush it out of my eyes  ― falls messily over my glasses-clad eyes and I brush it away with frustrated hands. I put a baseball hat on, ready to head out. 

It's a Sunday. The parking lot of my apartment complex is filled with cars since it's only 6 am. But I know by the time I come back home by 11 am, the lot will be eerily vacant. The mothers will fix a hearty breakfast so that the family can endure the long service. The husband will put gel in his hair and straighten his tie a million times. The children will wrinkle their Sunday bests before they even leave the front door. And they'll all drive to the nearest church and warm up the pews as they listen with deaf ears to the rehearsed and repeated words of a man who cares more about their wallets than their souls. 

To me, the church was a business. In my heart, I knew God was real, but too bad the people that worshiped him were a bunch of fakes. 

I drove to the gym in record time. Only 22 minutes when it usually takes me a little over 30. There was little traffic on the road. A few stragglers heading home from working the night shifts. A few girls stumbling the walk of shame. And a few people like me; waking up early to work out.

I figured with all this free time that I'll have from not destroying my liver with alcohol and blacking out on my couch, I might as well start taking my workouts more seriously.

When I was younger, I used to play a lot of sports. It kept me fit. But as I got older, my motivation to even get out of bed dwindled and dwindled until the only thing that could convince me was her. But I can't depend on her like this.

It's selfish. I can't be selfish with her. She deserves better.

I shake my head again as I walk into the gym. Why is she with me, even when she's not with me?