love is all there is... | |
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5:40 p.m. || 2003-01-14 | It was rather chilly today, and I felt self concious in my Abercrombie jeans and sweater... It was almost as if I was in someone else's clothing. It took all I had to resist the urge to tear the things off in a frenzy. Nevertheless I had to go to school. I managed some semblence of control over myself, placing myself outside of my body, and trudged the day away staring down at this awkward cacoon that encompassed me. Panic struck me at the idea of class today, as I stepped out of my car. Yet I forced myself to close the door, walk to class...I stared at the floor in the yellow hallways as I walked, too unsure of myself to even glance up to make sure I was going the right direction. I could feel the eyes of my fellow students staring at me, drilling holes in me, as I stood awkwardly in the hallway waiting for class to begin. I pulled at my poison ring almost obsessively, opening and closing and twisting it. My hair was frizzing out, I knew it. My skin was dry and everyone could see the creases and flakes on my forehead. Yet this was all in my head. No one really looked at me. No one really even cared that I was there. Still, it was a rather maddening experience. Perhaps I have a bit of social anxiety. Over the course of the week an interesting thing transpired. My mother found my container of vomit under my bed. I made up a story about being sick, and not wanting her to find out because I was scared of the doctor. Foolishly I believed that she had bought it hook, line, and sinker. Alas, she emailed me yesterday in formal fashion expressing some false concern and motherly love (which is a foreign thing for me, from her). I will not be purging in this house again. As far as Peter, mother, anyone else should know I am recovered and fine. I did not admit that I have an issue to her, and I will never. Never. People think I should be happy with her fucking concern. They would love to have my mother, so caring, so loving, so perfect. How do they know this from one email?! I should never have voiced my concern about her finding out my secrets. People make judgements of my life and my family situations with no fucking idea what our background is. I love my mother, but often I am in doubt that she returns the affection. Always in doubt, actually. We have a long, nasty, painful history of violence, fighting, and her giving up on me like I was some.. thing. Like I was not even hers. She sent me away so often that it became natural for me to run on my own, far away from her and this evil house of nightmares and angst. But they could never understand. They do not realize the betrayal that I felt and still feel. They do not understand that she does not act as if I am even alive most of the time, barely acknowledging me when I speak. It doesn't click for them that my mother might not like me at all, just because she claims to love me. Why should I want to divulge my secrets to her? She who has so often betrayed me and left me behind, she who has told me I am not the daughter that was born to her, she who chose a man over me. She who let me get hurt, caused me to get hurt... set idley by while my very being was turned to ashes and dust til I was no longer anyone or anything that I ever had been. She who only decided she loved me when I became perfect again. I shall not tell her, ever. If they do not understand that to hell with them. They do not know me. They do not know my mother. I am very angry at those who I have confided in, who have made me feel betrayed and worthless and selfish by their careless comments about my mother and her fucking so called love. If she reads this diary so be it, although I doubt that she would ever find it. She does not know where it is.
Previously I had written that I was locking this, but I am not because I have moved. Half of this entry that was dedicated to my lockage has been deleted.
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