I drink too much pop.
I don't know, it just seemed like a good way to start off an entry. I do, anyway. I drink at least two, often three cans a day.
You know, I'm thinking of getting another diary. I don't know why too well... I just... A lot of things have been recorded in here, which some would call bizarre; things which would have people deem me insane. I'm not.
I still believe in the things I wrote about in here, still believe in Magick. I guess I always have.
I'm naïve. I trust and believe in what people say too easily. In some cases, at any rate.
I don't trust and believe in people easily, though. Every person I've ever really, truely believed in (and, there have been precious few) has hurt me. Mom, Dad, Izzy, Hannah... all of them. It's still a struggle, at times, not to believe... in both them and others.
Why do they always hurt me? Why can't I trust, love, believe in those I ought to be able to believe in without the constant, overlying fear that they will suddenly change?
My parents shouldn't hurt me, should they?
Not physically, of course, but the wounds are still there. Some are slowly healing, most are raw and open.
It hurts so bad.
I know it so well.
Apparently, I "owe" Mom two hours' worth of work on my room. I always have a drawing to finish.
I feel like I have to scream and cry, but even if I do, no one will ever listen. Even when they do, they never, ever, ever hear.
"Please let me start screaming.
Please let me start screaming.
Please let me start screaming.
Please let me start screaming."
Those lines from Invisible Man by Lush, I believe?
Dad was in another of his moods today. I can't believe I got my hopes up when he joked with me like he used to, when he came to pick me up.
Is it normal to feel like crying every time you spend time with your father? Is it okay if he acts as though he doesn't like you, and ignores you when you try to start a conversation?
No. No, I really don't think it is.
It's good that he talks to Colin, at least, like he used to talk to me. Colin, I think, needs love and compassion more than I do, right now.
I guess that it was a choice of one of us or the other, huh?
Dad does what Mom does, now. Only, in some ways, he's worse. He makes me feel guilty, like I should apologize, then he gets upset with me when I do.
What the hell does he want of me? What does he expect?!
Bitter irony. He's quite a hypocrite. He condemns Mom for doing things he now does himself.
If all his talks about looking out for you and never helping others out of pure kindness lead to such emotionlessness, heartlessness, well, then, so be it. Let me be screwed, over and over, by those whom I help out of love and kindness. I will never be so cold. Never.
I will be me, not whomever he expects me to be, expects me to become.
I am me. If you don't love me for who I am--and this goes for all of you, present and future--stay the hell out of my life.
These pages are so small, it's hard to write. But bigger books don't come with locks. As flimsy as the locks on diaries are, I will not use one which is without.
As little protection as they may provide, it's better than nothing.
I haven't felt so bleak, so desolate, in a long, long time. I don't even have anyone to confide in, to whom I could speak freely of my pain. I hate my life.
I don't hate me, but I hate my life.
I need to get out of here, to start over somewhere new. Unfortunately, it'll be three or so more years until I can. Doesn't that suck?
This is one of those rare, lowest of low moments when even death seems preferable than this continued existence.
But I don't truely want to die. I want to escape. And I want people to be friends with, and people to love.
How many, I wonder, people will I be able to find who are not scared of my being Wiccan, and who like anime?
Few, I'm sure.
When I got home, I hoped to find solace from pain. But Mom was tired, and so I went to hide in her room and watch T.V. I sat there and cried almost silently, for a few minutes. Living like this is more than I can bear.
When she took me to get my supper, later, I was so tense. I didn't know if I would say the wrong thing, or too little, or too much, or what I would do to set her off at me.
Thank the God and Goddess, I managed not to set her off. She asked me if I was alright, and I said yes. She believed me. Good. I don't want to have to explain. Not now, maybe not ever.
She didn't listen. The one time I tried to, she refused to listen, and she yelled at me. She won't even try to stop hurting me.
Won't hardly even consider it.
I wish I had someone to look out for me.
I mean, and older brother or sister, or one of my parents, or a grandparent, or someone. Anyone.
But, I don't have anyone.
I have no one. I have no friends, and I have no family I can trust in.
I'm all alone.
And I'm so, so lonely...