The beeping of the machines I was linked to only increased my state of panic, as a nurse put an oxygen mask over my mouth and nose. It was hard for me to breathe at that point, as I didn't understand what was happening to me. I tried my best to iden...
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March 7th, 1993
Dear Diary,
Another day begins, and I don't know if I'm even ready to face it for obvious reason. Today is Michael's interview with Oprah, and it's taking place here, meaning that I'll have to eventually meet the woman. No matter how much Michael trusts her, I don't and I won't. I'm not a judging person, but I don't trust so called journalists around Michael, especially not her and her weird and inappropriate questions. But Michael's lawyers came up with a contract, and she agreed on signing it, so I believe she'll stuck to it. What scares me the most is that I didn't have any vision telling me this event in particular changed, so does it mean it didn't and that Winfrey will ask her questions anyway?
These questions are driving me insane, and I can't even talk about it with my brother because he's still in Tibet. He's been gone for seventeen days now. He was supposed to be gone for a couple of weeks, so the fact that he isn't home already is scaring me more than words could tell. Each passing day turned into torture. I don't know if he is alright, if he found the monk he told me about,...
All I know for sure is that I want my brother to come h—
"Mama?" Faraji's little voice interrupted my writing, and I looked at the door, only to see my son in his one piece pajamas on the doorstep of my room.
"Hey baby," I greeted the little one as I put my journal on the nightstand. "Come here," I beckoned, tapping the empty spot beside me, since Michael was already up and setting everything up for the interview.
Faraji didn't waste a second and jogged towards the bed before jumping on it to join me. Automatically, he cuddled with me and hugged my side, putting his head on my shoulder. I laid a small kiss on his forehead then delicately put my head on his.
"What are you writing in this book?" he asked, pointing at my diary with his free hand while he was holding his stuffed tiger with the other. "Are you writing a story?"
"You could say that," I giggled a bit, as I rubbed his back gently. "It's my story. I write what's on my mind, what I am feeling when writing it... It's very personal. No one's ever read it but me."
"Not even daddy?" he asked with round eyes and with his mouth open as he pulled away from me. "Never?"
"Not even your daddy," I shook my head with a little smile as I pinched his little nose. "He knows that this little book right here is where I keep my most secret thoughts."
"Will you let us read it one day?" he asked innocently.
"Maybe one day, when...," I trailed off in the middle of my sentence, not wanting to go there, "—when you'll be older."
I meant those words, but it wasn't exactly what was on my mind. I wanted to tell him that I hoped he would read them, at some point, when I'll be no longer here. I would want him to know what he meant to me and how happy his presence in my life made me feel. I knew he'd find comfort in those words, because I found comfort in my mother's writings when she passed. How she always did everything she could to be a good mother to me, how she truly discovered what life was about when I was born... I wanted Faraji to have this.
