This is a journal entry I wrote when I was 21.
July 25, Provincetown:
“Three weeks ago we celebrated the 4th of July in the dark. Up against the beach, underneath the sky, the fireworks exhaled off MacMillan Wharf. At first I was excited; the evening was radiant in many ways. I felt connected and full, a balloon of anticipation and energy.
Hunger. Am I always hungry for something? For the thing. The one. I am embarrassingly prepared. I want to live entirely and everyone knows it. But after music at Bubalas, then the madness of the 1 am Spiritus Pizza rush, someone mentioned H., and then I wasn’t okay. I was sore in every vein, all bones struck by the name, a dull ache all over me. I went silent, trying to push away tears. What could I say to anyone? What did they know? So I gave nothing after that. Said nothing after that.
In the car, on the way back to Truro with I., D., and others, it got even darker, and I sat in the back of the car, silent, waiting for the moon to show up. And during the drive, I think that I braced everyone with my inability to pretend that I did not feel sorrow and a loss of grace at the reminder of pain. And, finally after a few minutes, I.’s voice rose from the front, and she said, “Masha, I can feel you thinking.” And to that D. added, ” That is a constant, isn’t it? Feeling Masha think?”