The reason I sometimes post essays I wrote several years ago (despite the fact they make me uncomfortable) is that I am relieved to see how far I have come from the person I became after my sister died. I am amazed, when I read those old essays, how dramatic they are. But they perfectly capture how I felt then. Everything was magnified, intense. Not much good happened—-or so it seemed. I couldn’t see good in much, and if I did, I was probably suspicious of its ability to last.
I am sad for that Angela of the late 90s, for she was so lost, miserable, confused, and alone. It seemed that in my state of misery I just made one wrong, lazy, or self-destructive decision after another. Those memories are so shrouded in a dark, hazy web that I have a hard time remembering clearly. The one good decision I made was to apply to Mason and start taking classes. Most everything else I was just on autopilot and did whatever was easiest.
I was angry a lot and I’d get mad at any old thing or person. I was unforgiving and needy at the same time. I don’t know how anyone could stand to be around me—-and some did leave, understandably.