"Every now and then I get a little bit tired of listening to the sound of my tears..."--Bonnie Tyler
10 September 1999--1:00 a.m.
blah, blah, blah, I'm supposed to be writing with Amber and being creative. Creativity. It hurts to think. I can't concentrate. THe music is on. Placebo. I try to think, but the music is all I can focus on. And Brian, little pyro that he is, is burning matches in the kitchen. Burning smell. I no longer hear the words to the music. I know their's music in the background, but the words don't make sense.
Tomorrow I start my prozac. I think. I'm still not sure I'm going to. Brian is trying to tell me that I'm not depressed. He tells me that I just have a guilty conscience and if I stay close to the Bible I won't need medicine. Amber tells me I don't have a chemical imbalance, I just need to talk because I have repressed memories.
I don't think anyone really understands how I feel. Maybe they think they do and feel they are helping, but everyone has something to say. Sometimes people might want to understand but they don't fully try, even if it's only at a subconscious level.
Maybe I just don't understand. Maybe one of them is right. But I don't know. I try so hard to be what everyone needs me to be. I tried and I'm sick of trying. I want to be what I want to be, but I don't know what I want to be because I'm little peices of everybody else...
I'm tired of living the life my mother never had. I'm sick of being the perfect daughter and bending to their every whim.
I'm tired of everything. I want to be far away from here. Far away from her. Not far away from Florida.
This is the only home I know. This is all so redundant. I'm sick of being all pissy and whining about everything. It seems like that's all I write about. Maybe I talk about it too much. Maybe I don't talk about it enough. Maybe there's peices of me even I don't understand and maybe I'll never understand. And maybe I want to much and maybe I don't want enough.
and maybe I shouldn't drink.
So here I am no further along than before. I write everything down and I don't feel any better and I haven't come up with a solution and I'm stuck stuck stuck
We dyed Amber's hair red today. Tonight actually. Curly, curly, pink red hair. Pink red hair.
Red red red like my anger. Red like my love. Red like roses I picked for grandma, pretentious b**** that she always was. Red like the slashes the cat made in my hand.
Red like the blood I bled when she hit me. She hit me. What kind of mom is she. She hurt me, but what else is new. She hates me because I won't be her pet. I won't stay walled up in her tower the slave to her unfulfilled dreams.
I hate this. Not her. Just this. But I hate him. No, I don't like him. He's mean and never has anything nice to say and he hurts me with his poison dart words aimed skillfully at my heart and head and fill me with despair and hurt and salty tears and then anger and frustation.
He makes me feel like a caged animal, like I'm a prisoner in my own life and I can't get out and I can't get out and I'm glued to this place, to this moment, because I'mstuck and I'm stuck and who wants to help? Who says they will but they don't...superficial smiles and false nods of understanding.
I want to scream but I can't scream and I won't scream and the kitty is watching me. King Ramseys, prince of his small, simple, little world. How nice that must be for him...no cares no worries and he can sleep all day if he wants to...........and I want to sleep but I can't sleep and I won't sleep. Sheets ripped off and tangled around me like last night and toss and torn turn I mean and it hurts and it hurts.
and you'd think I'd be all cried out, no more tears would or could come, but I have an everflowing, overflowing amount of tears and give in to them only when I can't bear to hold it in anymore because when I cry I'm a baby or an actress "That money spent on acting school was well spent". They never understand and don't even care. But do I care? They just yell more and more and more and the weight on my chest on my heart is heavy and I lose control and the tears overflow and overdramatic little me "plays the victim again".
I must be really good at playing the victim by now. You know, since I do it so much and well maybe I'm not since mommy sees through it. Sure.
Maybe I'm an orphan. Bastard child that I am and daddy (whoever the hell that might be) doesn't want me doesn't care doesn't need me doesn't want me.
And mommy is married to her job and didn't want me to begin with, what a cruel thing to say to a child and mommy didn't need us and I ruined her big career and she pretends she cares what we say but she's usually to busy to hear.
and then it stops. Has my well run dry? Hardly. and I miss James and I miss grandpa George and chicken rice soup with ketchup and pepper, and roses and solitaire, and stories and daffodils and my best friend and the one who understood or maybe I'm just delusioned maybe I was just stupid and young and don't understand.
but he LOVED me, popsicle rainbow puke and all and I worshipped him and SHE killed him and I'm not angry at the world I'm just angry at myself for staying in this trap and angry at HER, and angry at mother and angry at her husband. So much anger, where do I go to get away for a while? It all just follows me and I hate when she tells me I am just like my grandma and I crave attention and I have no friends and I'm pretty much a loser.
and I hate him for taking away my voice and I want to sing but it's gone and they are there and I can't so I cry in frustration and sadness for all the fallen tears and the stolen music that could be mine and I'm so afraid of tomorrow. Where will I be and tomorrow comes and my plans are gone and I'm still here in a jar. the butterfly collecter, mother, that's what you are.
Maybe I'm balming you for my problems. Maybe you're right. Maybe I don't take responsability for my own actions. Maybe I blame the world for my problems and maybe your just a b****.
and maybe you don't know it and maybe it's not your fault and maybe you cry at night but maybe hat makes me want to cry and the thought of you crying is sad and it hurts and my eyes blur with tears and I hate to think I make you cry maybe I am selfish and maybe I just need to take my medication or maybe I should just cry and I think I want to cry on James. I want to watch the little salty drops on his beautiful hair and inhale and breathe in the scent of all that is him and to take comfort in the strength of his soft frame and I want to be consumed by him to take comfort in the folds of his arms and hide behind him when it's time to face the big bad wolf and I hate being me and I hate being weak but I don't know if I can be strong and I can't run away and I'm not yet numb just dumb and alone and afraid and small and trapped and frustrated and confused and angry and I just want to exist without her disease and I don't want to BE her disease or the thorn in her side.
I wish she'd understand but she never will because she only understands money and she never says "I love you" she only accuses and it hurts but I don't care because I pretend I'm made of stone but I'm made of glass and how many times can they throw stones before I shatter? and I keep writing my pain without writing my pain and such ugly thoughts for such a pretty cover...am I pretty? Do I have a pretty cover? I have a pretty lover but does that make me pretty and my existance seems pretty from the outside but try being in my place. I wish I was outside looking in.
And Amber is so different with her cranberry juice curls and Marty is sleeping like and innocent little boy and I want to sleep and I want to sleep and I want to sleep and why do I have to get out of bed tomorrow or yesterday or ever? Why can't I sleep for a year and maybe everything will be better when I wake up and maybe they won't and maybe I'll be covered in the spiderwebs I'm drowning in. and maybe Kitty won't bite me. Maybe he'll fianlly just love me and will he be sad when I'm gone or will he even notice? And what of the silly little dog.
and Valerie my beautiful betrayer who lost my trust and her innocence and who kisses girls...will she always be too wrapped up in herself to she has a beautiful life and she has a chance. Does she have to be her? I guess she does. I want my Valerie back, sweet, innocent, trusted, little Val and she is gone from me and has become HER almost sometimes I think she is worse than the tarnished gem, my mother's mother. They are just a branch of the same tree. Which one is more cold, more calloused?
And I look at my life and remember or try to remember my happy times. Genuine joy, but mommy isn't there and forget the man who caused me to become- if man is a word, maybe coward, maybe germ.
And happy times are few. I've always been the one pushed around. Always the listener, never the boss.
I don't know how to take control. I want to sleep in the feild of poppies and sleep and maybe the opium would give me funny dreams. maybe this is all a dream,a tragedy, not my comedy.
Ramseys is sleeping and I want to be, but Marty's asleep and Amber and Brian are pushing the buttons and the sounds come out but they haven't got the right key so I stay here and keep wrtiting what pops into my heavy head. The night is a heavy blanket and wants to swallow me and I'm not afraid of it but it's eerie and the light will go out and I'll be alone..... "We scream in cathedrals, 'Why can't it be beautiful? Why does there gotta be sacrifice?'"--Tori Amos