Maybe I'm the only one who's worried.

I'm worried about the upcoming election, about false hope and unfulfilled promises, about the continuation of status quo and the possible assassination attempts. I'm worried about the ozone layer eroding, about gas prices rising, and the economy failing. And laugh all you want, mock me for my stupidity, but I am worried about the quickly approaching 2012, about the apocalypse.

I take another drag of my cigarette. But I'm asthmatic, and so I worry about my lung damage, or about having another attack. I never go out without an inhaler too far out of reach. Then again, if the apocalypse is approaching (and I can almost feel that it is), an asthma attack is probably the least of my worries.

"I haven't really been thinking about it at all, I hope the thought hasn't been keeping you up at night," you say.

"I'm an insomniac. No specific thought keeps me up at night," I answer, with a false sort of cleverness. But secretly, I'm disappointed. Yes, I've been thinking about it, at least on and off.

"Really, don't worry about it." You won't refer to what you'd done directly, and I wonder if that's part of the denial, part of the ability to stop worrying.

Humans are phenomenally resilient creatures. The fact that one person can hurt another so deeply, and then just forget about it, shake it off and move on... that kind of resilience is too pragmatic, too unfeeling. My mind goes into hypermode, I start making grand generalizations to rapists and serial murderers and their ability to shrug life off. All I can say is, "Well you have nerves of steel, I guess."

"I haven't really been worried about it," you repeat. "I hope you haven't been either."

Just shrug it off. Move on. Go to sleep, and wake up as though it never happened. Forget about it, and never bring it up again. Is that how people do it?

Meanwhile, I worry. About the cigarette, the presidential election, the ozone layer, and people who live but never feel. They say that stress kills. I wonder if I'll even live to see the apocalypse.

My half-torn, sickly-green diary never really got thrown out, the first and only paper journal I'd ever kept. To this day, it's still on my bookshelf at my parents' house, festering in its embarrassing, awkward teenage glory. Filled with ugly penmarks and expletives, it is a piece of the person I was then and, as difficult as it is to swallow, a piece of the woman I am today.

Almost every entry is about John, John the first boy I ever "like liked" (actually seen in context). The motherfucking asshole, as I described him, whom I wanted to kiss so badly... a bony-legged boy I couldn't stop thinking about.

Yes, we were friends, but we weren't very good ones. Sometimes I'd come over to his house, and he'd lock me in his bathroom, until I begged, pleading to be let out. But freedom was never free: no matter how much I pounded on that door, sniffled, stared at the cold white sink, he would not let me go until I told him secrets, so many secrets were revealed, whispered through that bathroom door. Secrets that he had promised not to tell... I should have known better.

In groups of three or four, we all played Truth or Dare. He'd turn to me and say, I dare you to:

flash me

pretend that you're humping this pole

kiss me

pretend that you're humping this sleeping bag

lick this sink

I did all these and more. But he never liked me, he smirked when I naively followed his commands, all the while he tossed pens and paperclips in my face. He told me, over and over, that I was fat, that my chest was too big, and that I would be "the worst person to have sex with, ever."

Expletives and inkstains. I wrote my frustrations out in the ragged green journal, but never told him in person.

Close to the end of out friendship, we were at his house, and he suddenly grabbed a cold, wet towel with his skinny arms. He slapped it across my bare legs, leaving a red mark. I didn't budge. He slapped me again. I twitched but didn't yell out, didn't move. And another slap, and another, until my legs were covered up and down in bright red marks. I stood, bravely, holding tears back. "Jesus," he gasped, staring at me from behind his spectacles, "It's almost like you have no feelings. It's almost like you're not really human."

So I lie and tell myself that this was eight years ago, before Bush was even president, that I am a completely different woman, sophisticated, confident, mature (or at least pretending to be), and yet... unrequited love hasn't really changed.

It's still full of tears, empty words, and messy inkstains. And my legs still feel shaky, unstable... as if they've been whipped nonstop all these years.