Investigating my 2001 journals has not been an emotional journey. And I have felt bad about that. I mean, they are interesting, to me anyway. They make me feel kind of sad, wistful, what have you. I know these things, and there have been a few surprises but largely I see a callow youth, walking blindly into a dark forest.
At least, that was how I had been until I began peeking ahead. The last entry before we learn the truth will be that of March 18. The next day we go the hospital, and emerge five days later. My next journal entry is several pages long, detailing our experience. If you know I Hate This, you know that part. And you would think I know it, too. But I was surprised.
Surprised because, up until this point, reading about the expectancy, the planning, such as it was, for this first child, I have been reading the words of a stranger. I am no longer that guy, and have not been since March 19, 2001. When I pick up the story after, then the words I am reading are mine. That's me, ten years ago. When I was born into this new world. I know who that guy is.
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