January 3rd, 2012

Dark Things

Saturday, Sept. 19th 2003
Dear Diary,
Well, a new beginning (in more ways than one, that’s for sure). It’s always fun to start a new diary, I believe you are number four. I’ll bring you up to date.
I’m fifteen now, big whoopdy-doo…I’m now just waiting for eighteen. On Monday the 15th, my mom died from head/neck and lung cancer. It still hasn’t sunk in yet, I’m pretty sure I don’t want it to. Where I’m going to be living for the next three years is way too hard to explain. Honestly, I don’t even really know yet. I do know that I will, temporarily, be in foster care starting Monday.
Let’s talk about something else.
Considering I’m fifteen you might guess there’s an “object of affection” in my life. Well, gee, hot danm! You’re right! I’m sure you’ll get to hear plenty of mushy-gooshy-gushing over that particular subject. That subject happens to be just as complicated as everything else in my life is about to be. His name…well, actually in case someone gets their hands on this I think it’d be better if I just refer to him without a name.
“He’s” twenty-four years old, he’s my best-friend and my not (as of yet) committed lover. I think for a long time I wondered (or maybe hoped) if it was really love at all, maybe something else? Like a “school-girl” type crush, or “lust”. ‘Cause let’s face it folks! Love is, in fact, some serious, very serious, business!
Today as I watched him pack away our things, pretending he didn’t know my eyes were on him, I suddenly felt…so MUCH towards him. Love. I think that I love him. Though I’m not sure, and he’d never admit it, I think that he might love me too. I can feel it…I think.
He came to stay here for a couple of days, to help with stuff (there’s so much stuff to do after someone dies, even more when you’re just a kid and you aren’t allowed to take much with you) and I think the only way I’m making it through this, is I know he’s here, I’m not alone. He holds me every night.
He had to leave tonight and I miss him so much. My bed no longer feels good, not the same, I’m still lying on “my side”. It’s funny how just a few days can make such an impact. Last night was the last time we’ll make love for a while. I’ll miss that too.
Another thing is that I’m 17 weeks pregnant and I’m having an abortion next week. I am so scared…I don’t know if it’s the right choice. I’m so confused.
Wish me luck.

Wednesday, Sept. 17th 2011

Time to start remembering my life. I have lost so much behind the curtain, the one that protects us all, our brains from the things we can’t handle. The Bible apparently says (I’m not going to pretend to have heard/read this first hand, I just hear people say it all the time, I’m sure you’ve heard it too) that “God does not give us anything we can’t handle”. That is a spectacular, special type of BULLSHIT, if you ask me. (And FYI if you’re reading, you’re asking.) Dangerous Bullshit.
I believe in Stephen King more than I do the Bible, and he’s certainly more fun to read, albeit not necessarily more imagainative. So I’ve come to believe in The Curtain. In King’s “Lisey’s Story” The Curtain is purple. Mine I imagine a velvet red, so dark it looks black (similar to the curtains that cover the great “silver screen” at the movies). It’s so long and cascading that it’s all bunched up on a black floor you cannot see, and there are large white, acrylic block letters printed across it’s unimaginable length and height (while our brain is small, the mind is infinite…and there’s a lot that needs covering you see). The letters spell out:

Saturday (Night!) 1:18am Sept. 20th 2003
Dear Diary,
Since my mom died I’ve let him become what occupies my thoughts, it keeps me from becoming depressed. Or, more depressed anyway. Being in love is much easier than loss, no matter how painful love has the potential to be.
I don’t know what I’d do without him and I don’t want to find out, but I guess I’ll have to. My mom seemed to really like him and trusted him—which is truly huge, she hated men, I mean HATED ‘em…for several reasons. She hated women too actually, people in general, I guess for the most part she really only liked me.
Right now it’s scary to think about but with my mom gone, he is the only person in the whole world who I really love, who has the potential to maybe love me unconditionally…and certainly the only person who will ever really know what I’ve been through this past year. He was here.
I don’t want to talk about the pregnancy yet…

Thursday, Sept 25th 2003
Dear Diary,
I’ve made the decision not to have the abortion. Officially. It’s too scary for me to handle right now. I don’t know what he’s going to say…I’m scared.
I miss him so much. I know he misses me, I think he loves me…Maybe that’s just foolish to let myself think that, probably is. Loving him makes me happy and also horribly sad. It feels like he’s the right person for me to love and the wrong one all mixed up in one.
Anyway, I made the decision. Part of it anyway.

Wednesday Sept. 17th 2011 continued...

…A little cosmic joke, as in, “Forget it man, she’s ‘outta you’re league!” I’m not sure of much, but one thing I am quite sure of? The universe most certainly has a sense of humor. Ah, but unlike those lovely red tapestries at the theatre, this curtain is not open. Though I know it can open, oh YES! I know it can open, even, sometimes, when you don’t want it too. And sometimes things creep out…
Dark Things.


The GIFT That Keeps On GIVING

Sept. 2003 (Unkown Date)

Mommy I’m Sorry
My throat burns,
From holding back tears,
I’m so afraid if I start cryin’
I won’t stop for years

You always taught me to be brave,
But I am not now,
I want to be,
But I don’t know how

I’m trying so hard,
But I don’t know what I’m trying to do.
It hurts too much to say aloud,
But Mommy I really miss you!

Who will love me now?
Who’ll tell me I’m pretty when I don’t feel like I am?
Who will forgive me?
When no one else can?

I’m so sorry for all the things I did that hurt you,
For everything you had to go through,
I have so many regrets,
Things I know I can’t forget.

Sometimes I really hate myself a lot
God I’m so sorry for all the times we fought.

I feel like this is all my fault!
You had to die because God was mad at me,
Do I even believe in god?
Not really, not completely.

I want to go home mom!
I want to be with you,
You can’t be dead anymore,
Because I don’t know what to do.

Do you still love me wherever you are?
Is it really all that far?
I just miss you so much
Fifteen years wasn’t nearly enough
I really wish you could have stayed,
Because I really don’t think this hurt will ever go away.

October 19th 2003
Dear Diary,
I’m 22 weeks and one day now—it’s a girl for sure. I want to keep her so badly, with all my heart, but I don’t know if I can and I don’t know if I should. I’m horrible at making decisions, and this is a pretty big one. I know I love her though.
I’m going to Hawaii to see Royce (for 10 days) next week. We’ll see how I like it. I’m not really looking forward to it. I miss my mom, I miss her a lot. Every time I think about her it hurts too much and I have to stop. It’s hard to even write this. The holidays are going to be even worse. Sometimes I can hear her voice in my head but I think it’s just my imagination. Wishful thinking. I don’t know what to do. I keep saying that. I’m tired, exhausted. I want my old life back again. I blame myself for her death you know…second hand smoke is more deadly than 1st, so they say. Worse, I wasn’t there when she needed me—I ran away, I hurt her. Will she ever forgive me? Will God? Does god exist? And if he does can I please, please just tell him to fuck off? Ugh. I don’t know if I mean that. When are things going to get better? So many questions. I wish I could sleep forever. I dream about my mom and about him almost every night—mostly good ones. I feel like he was trying to reach me in my dreams last night. Even though I’m giving him up, I can still dream, it’s a comfort. There are so many things I’m ashamed of, I hope he doesn’t become one of them. We made a baby…He gave me a child…How do I let go of that?
I admit I catch myself dreaming about being a family. Making dinner in the kitchen together, arguing about money, staying up all night with Sarah because she won’t stop crying, making love…It makes me feel so incredibly stupid, probably sounds that way too. This is not exactly a situation that is set up to have a fairy-tale happy ending, I’m well aware. He doesn’t even want that, obviously he doesn’t even want me.
Oh it hurts, it hurts a lot, but it’s for the best. He won’t know about the baby, he’ll be free, as he wants to be, as he deserves to be.
I sleep in his shirt still. The blue one.

Wednesday Sept. 17th continued…

Sometimes good things come out from behind The Curtain, but often those good things can only be remembered, redeemed really, along with the bad (that is, after all why their back there). So those dark, slimy, sneaky little fuckers tempt you with the memory of getting to stay up late (hey, that’s fun!) and go with your mom to work and coloring under her desk, a sea of Crayola under there, all of your own (hey, even more super fun!)…But, uh, why would your mom keep you up so late and take you to work with her when Dad was home and could have stayed at home with you?
Ooooh! I remember! That was because about a week ago, mom walked in a little early from work and found Daddy watching a porno with you on the couch. He made up some story about putting in the wrong VHS, and mom believed him, but her gut must have been telling her a different story because she never left you alone with him at night again.
Thank you mom.
It seems like as more and more of the memories that should stay in the black, are working their way out, I keep losing the good memories. Even just regular, day to day memories are slipping away. What happened last week? Where did I put the fucking cat food? Why did I have to call you back? Really I knew you in high school huh? And what in the holy-hell happened on Desperate Housewives last Sunday, and did I even watch it???
I’ve lost years of my childhood into the black, good with the bad. Still, the leaking darkness won’t allow me the whole picture. It’s just a puked up mess of random puzzle pieces.
Randomly the subconscious is puking up more and more. Ever since I found out what “he” did, no not my dad, we’ve known all about that for awhile. That’s right I mean…

Thursday Sept 28th 2011 12:26 AM

I’m writing this and I’m remembering. I remembered Sarah Murphy. In fact, I’d never forgotten Sarah, but I’d forgotten her name, sometimes both her first and last name, sometimes just her last name. I never forgot her face though, I remember thinking she was so beautiful, and I thought she looked a lot like Gwenyth Paltrow. Tonight I remembered her name, her whole name. I had a little help. I immediately used my very old and kind friend Google to try to find her. Not only has Sarah become a Guardian ad lidem, and was liscened just this year two days after my mother’s birthday, but I found a phone number.
I was so excited I jumped up and called immediately, at freaking ten after midnight! I knew it was just a work phone, I wouldn’t be disturbing anybody, and I knew if I put it off I’d never do it. I left her a voicemail, told her my name and my mom’s name, I told her she had helped me a lot when my mom was sick and after she died…and if she remembered me at all I’d love to hear from her.
Sarah was wonderful. She brought me pizza, movies, and actual presents on my 15th birthday that I would have otherwise spent alone—that same day my mother had been admitted to the hospital because she could no longer breath on her own—I had spent my birthday seeing her off in an ambulance. Though I didn’t know it then I would not get her back out again until less than a week before she died, which would be less than a month later.
When my mom did die, in a little apartment, filled with our things, in Seattle, Sarah came and picked me up. She bought me a pack of cigarettes and we sat on a park bench smoking together and talked, she was a social worker so that was probably a huge no-no…But Sarah understood that cigarettes were not my biggest problem at that time. Sarah was also the only person I’d entrusted with my big secret—she knew about him, and she knew about the pregnancy—though I never came out and told her it was his child, or that we’d well…you know done things that caused a baby to be made…I think she knew. She also understood that even THAT was not my biggest problem.
I would face many things over the next year, and the many years to come, but I’d always remember that day, the day my mother died. And that, that day Sarah had been the one who got me the fuck out of there for a little bit and let me slow down, and not worry about anything else, except that I’d just lost my mom. That WAS, at the time, my biggest problem.
Thank you Sarah Murphy, I hope you call.

Dark Things, Places to Be, Secrets to Keep

Thursday Sept 28th 2011 2:04 AM
Have you asked yourself yet what the hell a 24 year old man was doing with a 15 year old girl?
Too bad I wasn’t the first, or the last.

Places to Be, Secrets to Keep, Decisions to Make

Monday Nov 3rd 2003
Dear Diary,
I’m now fairly certain I won’t be moving to Hawaii, I do not belong there, not at all. I would have to be put on A LOT of medication to handle living with my uncle. All he does is talk about people I don’t know, what year they were born, what they got their degree in and what kind of special tooth-paste they use!! Oh and don’t forget the name of their second removed grandchild’s cousin. Important stuff you know. Really, I love him, but child or no child it wasn’t going to work.
I feel like my head is spinning still from all of that. So I’m having a baby, I’m keeping Sarah. I don’t know how this is going to work out. I did have my palm read at the market yesterday before I went to catch the plane, he said that I would be much happier now that things are beginning to go my way. A generic reading, but I hope he was right. I dread the 26th, that is the day we go back to court. Thursday is my busiest day this week, first at 9am I’m to be at Department of Child and Family Services (DCFS) for staffing, that’s when I’ll find out what will happen if a dependency petition is filed by the state. Then I go see Dr. Esser, then at 3pm is my appointment with Sarah Murphy and I am praying that he’ll be there this time…though what am I thinking? What am I ‘gonna say? “Oh of course I had the abortion! This? Oh I just got really fat in one spot. Silly you, you’re far too paranoid.” Fuck.
I can’t seem to let go, I close my eyes and fantasize about moments we shared, now in the past, and things I wish to be the future. It’s been over a month now since I felt his kiss, since I’ve been kissed at all…I’m so lonely. I fear that to him I’m nothing but a passing thought. My heart brakes when I think of him with other girls, I admit I’m jealous, and how can I help it! Am I not entitled to SOME attachment? And is he so cold that he doesn’t care? Dare I be stupid enough to believe he does? I feel so ashamed—so stupid because he could not love me though I let myself think that maybe he does.
I’m going to give birth in only 3 months! I can’t see my feet! I love my daughter so much, I hope I prove to be a good mother, whatever that is. I just wish I had my mom, I miss her so much and I can’t believe she’s really gone. Tears spill from my eyes as I write this, the tears are always in there, it’s a constant fight to keep them back. I wonder if she is watching over me like she always said that she would. I wonder if wherever she is, if she still loves me. God I want to cry so bad!! I can’t I’m at school!!
I feel so overwhelmed by all of this but I’m afraid to show any weakness for fear people won’t believe in me anymore. Who wants a messed up, defective, constantly sobbing teenager with a baby on the way? Nobody, that’s who.
He once told me that all of our emotions come from our diaphragm and taking deep breaths would stop them, I find now, at this point, that is all a bunch of CRAP!
I just wanna go home! But I don’t have one anymore!

Thursday, Oct 28th 2011

This has become so much like watching a movie in my own mind, a movie you’ve seen before but not for 10 years, you recall bits and pieces, certain things seem or look familiar, but you can’t for the life of you remember what happens in the end. I suppose this time the end is up to me.
I forgot about the secret meetings. I have forgotten so many things.
Sarah Murphy continued to be my therapist after I had been placed in foster care. I went to Bainbridge Island every week for our appointment, and Sarah would make sure that he knew when my appointment was. She also made sure we could exchange messages via the community bulletin board.
Did he ever show up? I don’t even remember, but I guess we’ll find out. I don’t know what I was thinking, trying to keep the secret of my pregnancy but still wanting to see him so bad.
How could Sarah not have known? Did she really buy the story I told everyone else? That he was gay? I don’t think so. Most people guessed pretty quickly that, that was a LIE (and not a very good one, though I thought so at the time).
I think it was obvious when we were around each other. There was some sort of invisible aura, that must surround people in love, although not seen, is still felt and makes such a union obvious. That’s just romanticizing the whole thing, something I seem apt to do. I’m sure, I was the obvious one, all googley eyed, and glowing. There’s no magical aura needed to see that is there?
So if she knew, did she also know it was his baby? She told me once, during one of our sessions, that she thought that he and I must have known each other and been “very close” in a past life, I remember I got a little scared when she said that, like I’d been caught, but later I was just flattered. Of course I was, I think inside I wanted the whole world to know, like anybody in love must feel. Maybe she was hoping I’d spill the beans, but I think she genuinely meant it, and while it sickens me now, I do think somehow fate was involved in my relationship with him. Years later I’m only now able to look back and see the reasons. Some of them anyway.
If Sarah calls…Should I ask her?

Tuesday Nov. 4th 2003
Dear Diary,
I am on some intense mission to get everything organized, more intense than a strawberry pancake and French fry craving! Speaking of, I started a food journal. How boring. The WIC nurse says I’m right where I’m supposed to be weight wise. Ugh, I can’t believe how much weight I’ve gained! Breast-feeding will help take it off though…and eating less fatty foods. Eating less food in general I suppose, though that’s a depressing thought, I love food! Oh French fries, you love me but hate my body, don’t you?
Anyways, Deb says that cleaning and organizing are part of the “nesting”. In other words I’m turning into a mother. How exciting! It’s all exciting! Sometimes I feel like this is the only place I CAN be excited about any of it—fifteen year-old girls aren’t really encouraged to be happy about their pregnancy. Which I completely understand, if my mom was still alive things would be very different, but I know in my heart this happened for a reason and I made the right choice. I question myself sometimes and wonder if that’s just an excuse, if I’m not just being selfish. Thing is though, I know this is a selfish thing, I know I am keeping her for the wrong reasons, and some right reasons—but I recognize that and I will work harder, and be the best mom I can be because of that, to give her a good life. If I’m choosing to be a mom, I’m going to be a MOM.
I took a break today and got my nails done with Shawn and then we went for coffee. Having a little immature girl time is nice every once and awhile. He would be disgusted with me if he know about my secret Starbucks affair.
Well it’s time to start getting ready for the baby! Oh goodness, still so much to do! I’ll write more about it tomorrow or Friday, I’ll probably have a lot to say on Friday because Thursday is when I have all those meetings and I might see HIM at Helpline at my appointment with Sarah Murphy.
Wish me luck!

Thursday Sept 28th 2011 10:32PM

I told you the good sometimes has to come out with the bad, only way sometimes folks, just the only way. Shawn Dee Love, was my first (and turned out to be the last, that I shared a room with anyway) foster-care roomie.
When I came to Debra and Brian’s I had no idea where I was going, to what family, and the only other time I had visited scenic Port Orchard WA was from the back of a police car and then a nice 14 day stay at their local Juvinile Detention Center. Debra and Brian Mead had three boys of their own, John (johnno) was the youngest at 5 and in Kindergarten, Bradley was 8 years old, outgoing and hyper little shit who used to lock me out of the bathroom when I had to pee but I loved him so much and he was both secretly and obviously my favorite, and the oldest Brian Jr. (B.J.) was 10, he was wary of me from the get go but we ended up getting along okay, though he often tried to rat me out for smoking (not knowing that his mom had a secret butt-sucking habit of her own).
Shawn Dee Love was a 13 year-old, black girl from a broken home, but you’d never guess life had gotten her down much. She used to sneak cigarettes (a precious commodity) out of my underwear drawer and when caught convince me to smoke in our bedroom out the window (we ALWAYS got busted), and would wake me up every morning blasting her hip-hop music and dancing half naked in a sports bra and thong (she started doing this every morning after one late afternoon I happened to walk in on her doing her little dance in front of the mirror and singing “I’m naked, I’m naked, I’m naked”—we both busted out laughing, and that’s the day we became friends).
Our room was tiny, we shared a dresser and slept on very small cots topped by a mattress with the thickness of your average children’s picture book, you could easily feel the wire underneath. I HATED those cots, sleeping comfortably while pregnant on a REGULAR mattress is hard enough, let alone those flimsy contraptions. Later I’d be moved to a huge water bed, I was very excited about it until I actually started sleeping in it, and you do sleep IN it, not ON it, at least when you’re 6+ months pregnant you do. I sank right to the bottom, and it was quite the struggle to roll over, let alone climb out of the thing in the morning.
She used to call “him” my “honky cracker, boyfriend-baby-daddy” who “doesn’t know how to use no telephone”. And wasn’t that the truth, she sure always told it how she saw it. She didn’t REALLY talk like that, only when she was trying to make me laugh, ‘cause I used to bug her about her grammar.
It’s nice to remember Shawn, I was so lucky to meet the people I did. There are so many more I probably never will remember, so many people who helped me, who did small things and big things, I wish I could find them and thank them all, hug them and tell them how much it meant, then and now. Sort of restores some faith in the human race. Shawn made a very scary situation the tiniest bit better, and the tiniest bit is a whole lot when you’ve hit bottom. She made me laugh all the time, kept my spirits up, and I really loved her. I feel guilty that I haven’t thought of her in so long, I hope the home she found was a good one, I worry because she used to tell me when she went there they’d let her smoke and drink…orphaned kids don’t rat out other orphaned kids though, she had my back so I had hers, so I never said a word.
I wonder now if I did the right thing.

Reality Check

Wednesday Nov. 5th 2003
Dear Diary,
Well, tomorrow is the big DCFS (Department of Child and Family Services) meeting, I’ve got the perfect outfit picked out. I think I’ll certainly look good, but God help me to keep it together! Every time discussion of state dependency (the fancy term for throwing a kid into foster care) is in order I get a little bit fiery. I’m going to do my very best to rise above it and use their information to my advantage.
I’m going to respite over the weekend (respite care is another state sponsored fancy term for: going to stay in a different foster home temporarily, it can be from 1 night to 30 days). Deborah’s daughter had a baby girl but she was born with a heart condition and they think she’s dying, so while she’s with her daughter, I go to respite. So I’ll be staying somewhere else for a few days, I’m nervous but I’m sure everything will be fine, it’ll give me a chance to get all that World History done. If I get A’s on my next two tests I’ll officially have an A in English, I’m doing well. Every time I start to slack off I think of my baby girl.
I’m going to College if it kills me!

Saturday, Nov. 8th 2003

Dear Diary,
My days in “respite” were interesting. Getting there, or rather entering the home was the interesting part. There were two police cars parked out front, lights flashing and when we first walked in the door, Jesse the eleven year-old boy in foster care living with this couple, was hanging off of the ledge (by just his finger- tips) at the top of their three-story stair case. No one knew if he was strong enough to pull himself back over, or if he fell, what they would do. So instead of doing something they started making phone calls to “case managers”, during which time he made it back up, but they called one of my old “case aides” to come to take him out of the home. My life is currently many, many things—but I certainly can’t complain of boredom can I?
On Monday I go to see Sarah Murphy, I wonder if maybe this time he will be there…
Trying not to talk about him.

Thursday Oct. 5th 2011, 11:43PM
It occurs to me more and more as I write this, how much books, writing in general, are like time travel. I am listening to, and watching my 15 year-old self once again, and while things look different from this perspective than they may have looked then, it does not make this feel any less magical.
So welcome back to the future (which by the time you arrive in the timeline will be the past once again, if you can dig it and not blow a fuse). Forgive me, I am taking this journey with you and am only serving to break it up a bit and to tell you what I remember, and eventually, also, what has come to pass.
Right now I’m sitting on (yes ON it not IN it!) my bed (not a cot, and not a water bed, but actually a very nice Tempurpedic). The white sheets and old, now a very off-white, down comforter are in a twisted pile at the foot of the bed, it’s raining outside and the window is open behind me, I’m wearing men’s blue flannel pajamas which are a bit damp in front and splattered with bits of food from washing dishes earlier. I’m listening to the Goo-Goo Dolls too loud, while talking to you of course, via my Time-Machine, a black Toshiba “net-book”. Can you see me?
I remember the day I went to stay with that couple, and I believe I went there again after that, at least a few times, but of course that night was most memorable. I remember being so angry that while this little kid was hanging God knows how many feet in the air (I have no sense of distance), but certainly high enough to kill him…everyone started making phone calls instead of DOING something. It’s not like this was a hostage negotiation, and he wasn’t threatening to jump, he had just been being a KID, playing around like it was a jungle gym, thinking he’d be able to get back up on his own. He was crying, hanging there, his chin tucked into his neck (I could only see him from the back and from the side from where I was standing in the entry way. I’m sure because he was looking down.
I feel guilty to this day for not running up those stairs, and at least trying to give him a hand. The real reason I didn’t was not because I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to pull him up, that I might instead end up responsible for his death had not even occurred to me. It was because I was afraid they’d take ME away if I disobeyed and tried to help him. That they’d send more “case aide’s” to collect ME, as well as him, and take me to some unknown and terrible place, and that I’d never see Debra again. I am terribly ashamed of that.
You see I’m really not a very brave person. I just had very good survival instincts I think.

Tuesday, January 3rd 2012
Fuck. Fuck, fuck fuck. I’m drunk, in case you were wondering, and in case that’s important information. Remember my readers your important, I’m always gonna be honest with you. So, he’s denied it, to an extent, and his sister is an aloholoc. What do I believe?? And he got hit by a car. This was gonna end in a work of fiction, but I guess life is stranger than fiction. I don’t even really believe he got hit by a car though, I think it was a cry for attention, he wants people to forgive him and feel sorry for him. You’d think we could be honest with each other. I’m disgusting, what the fuck am I talking about. You want a story and I’ll give you one but who knows how its gonna end? And by the way, if you think paying for groceries with your credit card instead of your debit card is embaressing and the worst day of your life—you have a fucking reality check coming.

drunk, still

Ugh. Yep still drunk, dont fuckin judge me. Besides its the opiates I have a problem with. We're not talking about that though. James is a spolied shit. I'm in love with Ian because I need a distraction, I need a god danm excuse, and sadly he was the last inresting thing to happen to me--thats honesty right there, and thats sad. More reasons to move the hell on and get out of this dark cold place ive set myself up in. How'd this happen to me? Howd I end up completely dependant on a man? My mom would be so disapointed with me. But seriously fuck you mom for making me dine and ditch, for embaressing the shit out of me in the grocery store and trying to steal gad at the Chevron--among other things. But thank you for instilling in me a sense of self worth and pride, and intelligence, with out which I'd have no idea I even deserved better. I'd just always have a sense that something was missing. Oh and Ian, I never said his name because he was always afraid of being forgotten, and that was gonna be my revenge, but its up to him, he's not gonna be remembered because of me anyway and I'm done being bitter and angry. I hope so anyway.