Friday night and Saturday morning
2002-11-02 || 9:06 a.m.

I had a very strange day yesterday.

It started out normally as is evident from my entry yesterday. I woke, entered my usual depressed state and found apathy to be the order of the day.

When I got home from shopping in the evening I didn't come on here at all. Rebecca had been out all day in London with her friends and she wanted to use the computer. I cooked dinner, had a mousetrap to empty (and an interested dog to keep away from it - oh how I wish I had a cat). I eventually just came on the computer when Rebecca went to the loo. I checked my emails. I didn't expect to have any because T is away. I was pretty surprised to find I had one new message. I was even more surprised to find it was a note - but not for this diary, for my other diary that is so fucking secret that even I don't read it. So I supposed that someone had stumbled across it and left me a note.

How wrong can you be?

It was a note of the accusatory style. I was pretty peeved.

My feelings and thoughts are entirely my own. I cannot help how I feel about things. I don't always feel the same. Some days I feel one way, other days another. Sometimes I need to write in there because what I write in there is just not suitable to write in here. It just isn't.

This is my real diary, this is where I am ME. The other diary is only for aspects of me. Aspects of me that I don't like to write about or just plain can't write about.

I don't know. Now I feel a bit of a fraud. I'm amazed she found it. There is only one explanation for the way she found it and that is a good explanation on her part so I'm pleased about that.

Yes, I know, this is all very cryptic. Trust me, its really not that interesting.

But the whole thing gives you a good idea of the real me. The real me is someone that you think you might know but then something comes along that surprises you. I don't mean that in a boasting sense. 'Hey I'm just SOOOO interesting'. I mean it in an honest sense. I fucking do stupid, inane ridiculous things. I think stupid, inane ridiculous thoughts. Just like everybody else I have multiple personalities that are on display for certain people and events. Hell, even I don't know who I am.

I would love to be the whole me here in this diary. There are things I think, things I want to do, things I desire but I just don't have the courage to write them down. Not here. I have written a very small aspect of them, there in that other place.

Now I'm going to have to go and get rid of it, because its going to be traceable.

And then I will be hideously embarrassed.

Humiliated even.

As I should be.

But I should be able to write exactly what I want with no fear of reprisal.

In an ideal world.

And quite honestly, my mind is mine. I really resent being told that I cannot think certain things and I REALLY resent being told this in a diary that is clearly set up for that purpose; is obviously mine and mine alone and not changed to make it attractive to others, not listed anywhere, no profile etc. Fucking hell. The only place I have is my mind. I have nothing else. Everything else in my life is outside pressures, pain, hard fucking work. My mind is the only place where I can be free to think and do what I would truly like to think and do. My feelings are mine. I know that my imaginings (on all sorts of things) will never become reality but even so I don't need someone to come along and try to take them away from me or be so arrogant as to think they can tell me what to think or feel.

I need my pain. I need my fears. I need my unlikely desires even.

Yeah, even me.