Liam's Journal: 08/17

if you’re just now starting this journey, start here for context

august 17

You’re “trapped in a nightmare” with him, there. I sort of wondered why you still went to the dinner, after everything that’s happened. But that’s you, isn’t it? You’re strong. I hope you know that. You’ll cry, he will be hurtful, and you’ll keep on. You’ll keep going and wonder how you got through. That much I can already tell about you. You’re strong. And I’m proud of you.

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I suppose I should explain to you what this is even for. I want to give you an account of my heart and mind and (hopefully) soul that I can give you at the end of this break. This is the only way I know how. So here it is. I hope this journal sees Liam change, through Christ and his resurrection. If I misspell things here, pardon me. I’m an english major, but my head is very full.

River, none of this is your fault. And yet, none of it would have happened if it hadn’t been for you. You keep apologizing and I just want to say, “thank you.”

Thank heaven for pen and paper and leather binding. I would have no other way of processing any of this. The pen I had been using in Europe busted, and I have blue ink all over my fingers and palm.

I’m really angry at Joshua. I don’t care how upset he is. A better man would give you space. It sickens me that I have to apologize on behalf of a grown Christian man. But I’m sorry, River. I’m sorry, on his behalf.

I have had narry a drop of coffee since I got up at 8. I am angst-ridden at the thought of you at a dinner with Joshua and I have a headache. I don’t mean to whine. I don’t even really know why I’m telling you this, except because I know that you do care.

I just thought of my hotel in Monaco. I do that sometimes, just out of the blue I’ll be thinking about something that has no present bearing. But I’ll tell you about the hotel anyway.

You’ll find it up one of the back streets that run parallel to the coastline, switchbacking up to the mountain that overlooks the bay. The entrance is a gate. If you’re backpacking like I was, you’ll be conscious that it’s a small door. Up four steps, and you’re on a tiled porch with a few tables, chairs, ashtrays. Walk inside past the potted plants and humiidity and the concierge desk is on your right. Get your key, walk past the desk and you’ll come to some dull-red stairs. THey’re wide, and the walls on either side are lined with mirrors. It’s oddly surreal. Once you reach the second floor, you walk outside across a small walkway to an adjecant (sp?) building. The walkways and balconies are narrow, rickety, and studded with more potted plants. There are palm fronds and succulents all along there, if I’m not mistaken.

Anyway, you turn to the left along the other buildings second story, and at the end is the room in which I stayed. It’s quite small. But clean and well-lit. The best thing is that there is a very effective air-conditioner on the back wall, the only defense against the humid costal air.

Sometimes, right now, actually, I feel like I’m still on that trip. Exhausted, sleep deprived, sore. But there’s too much to do and see to stop, heal, sleep. Everything keeps going. You always have to make the next reservation, the next hostel booking.

You just called me, sobbing, about Joshua. You had left the dinner and just started driving. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. You felt like it was all your fault. Exactly what he wanted. What am I feeling? Not much at all. And everything. Nothing and everything.