Journals and black coffee.

I always thought that I was a cream and sugar kind of girl, that I drank tan coffee, not the really dark brown stuff. Today, however, out of necessity (necessity being that I had no cream or even milk in my fridge) I drank my coffee black. Just a bit of sugar.

Finding that I rather liked it was a relief. It made me feel less fruity. Whenever I drink coffee with people who know my addiction and how much I adore the caffeinated substance – and scorn people who think that caramel macchiatos and campfire mochas are coffee – and they see me put cream and sugar in my coffee, I feel like a fake. I can see the confusion on their faces. They thought of me as a hardened coffee drinker, the biker chick of warm beverages. Then here I am, pouring half-n-half (which doesn’t actually exist in Austria) into my cup until it gets to the perfect shade of tan.

So I’m relieved to find that I’m not limited in my coffee drinking abilities. Heck, maybe some day I’ll be able to drink it without sugar, too – and like it.

We’ll see, I suppose.

While I discovered that I can drink coffee sans cream, I wrote the last page in my journal. March 31st, and I’m finishing up a journal. I couldn’t have planned that if I tried. This journal, now that it has retired, will be marked as the first journal where I could be honest. I don’t know about you, but I found it difficult to be honest in my journals after I read Anne Frank’s diary. They published them, and she wrote so well and about such honest things but without sounding stupid. I was quite sure that I would sound stupid in honesty.

Plus, it’s a struggle to be vulnerable at any time, even if it’s just with paper.

Going to counseling, however, required that I be honest in my journals. All the swirling thoughts in my head demanded to be written down, in crazy, neurotic form, without censorship. Then they would stop swirling. So, this journal is my first real, honest journal. It’s the one that will not ever be left on my bookshelf, just in case I die an untimely death and someone gets it into their head to read my stuff.

New journal day. New chapter. Blank pages. Black coffee. Goodness, what’s next?


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