Here we go . . .

I hate my parents.

Not that burning-over-hit-your-pillow-overflowing rage, just a quiet, calm, cool fire.

I hate my mom for leaving me at that school almost year round. I remember my 'first' Spring Break. She'd finally stopped working, and I was in public school. That meant there weren't any programs through the week. She had to take care of me.

I wonder if I was a mistake. I remember how we would fight. "_____, Malia and I are fighting, and if you come home and she's dead or gone, that's why ..." She threathened to send me to foster care. I wonder how many times she's said that stuff. Once, a friend said, 'that's child abuse!' Maybe it is. Maybe it isn't. I fight back. I curse too. And I got physical when she did. But I learned it from her. I don't know! God, send me an answer! Now!

But what bugs me the most is that she'll never admit to that, or to slapping me when she got really mad. Actually, she never slapped me. She twisted my arm, pinched me, and hit me. But she'll never admit that she might have affected [is that the right 'affect?' should it be 'effect?' I don't care.] me, or my childhood. Maybe it is me.

I just want to sleep, and sleep, and sleep and never wake up. I'd be skinny! *fake laugh* No, that and I'd finally feel okay.

I don't want to go back to therapy, but I promised a stubborn someone. I know what they'll say. "Another fucked-up, spoiled-rotten suburban kid." It's like they think that if you've got money, brains, and a nice house you're automatically happy.

Right. My dad isn't detatched, I don't cut myself, and I don't want to starve myself down to a size zero.

I remember what my mom said awhile back. "I don't know. Can we put her on Zoloft or Prozac?" They think that if they give you a drug you'll be okay. All they're giving me is suicide ammo.

I don't want to die ... besides, cherrie would kill me. I just want to slip out of this world and the fantasy life I built myself. where I'm loved. Okay, fine, liked.

God, school is so close. I don't want to think about it. Another year of hell. Of sticking with my true friends, and being shoved against my locker. Being stalked to the bus, with insults hurled. [Ever see the 'Unpretty' video? That's me, minus the teacher part.] Another year where I'm odd-man out in home ec., because none of my friends were there, and I'm the odd number. 'Does anyone want Malia in their group?' Dead silence. God, I don't want to go back!

Well, eight days until the new BSB song [which I don't think I'll like much at all] and nine days until therapy.

I'm excited in a twisted way. Maybe someone will listen to me, not my mother.

'well I don't know if I've never been really loved, by a hand that's touched me, and I feel like my head is caving in, and I'm a little bit angry ... I want to push myself down, well I will, well I will ... '