Jumbled words and thoughts spilled from the recesses of my mind, trickling over to the empty pages of my diary. I felt like the tattered silk adorning the cardboard covers. The spine was skinny and I was jealous. It was decorated with daubs of nail polish. I thought it was cool. No one else does. Maybe because Iíd die before I ever let anyone read my entire life.
I couldnít make my hands stop moving. They kept on writing and smoothing. The pages were filling up.
None of it was good. The bitterness returned.
What kind of person am I? What kind of person writes these things about her own mother? I donít understand anymore, as purple gel pen scribbles filled the page. It was just a bar of Twix, she didnít have to embarrass me!
The kind of things I only dare to write in here, drain the poison from my mind, intended for my eyes only. Someday I will burn this diary, before someone reads it and labels me insane.
Maybe I am. I donít know.
The nonsense scribbling exhausted itself. I changed pens to the happy orange color to lift my spirits. My eyes ached again, but the darkness of the room helps. Iím tired. But it will take a while to regain any energy at all. Energy. A sickly, sweet feeling. Like exercise. Exercising hurts.
I donít need them anymore.
They donít seem to make muchs difference.
Dear Daddy, how did I end up with my mother? Doesnít she understand the weight of her words on me? Doesnít she know how much of my confidence rides on the replies to the questions I ask her? I donít ask stupid questions. Iím not like the other girls, getting things colored, pierced and tattooed, while running off with some bonehead. I even try to get good grades like a good girl. But nothing I do is ever right. My face is square instead of round and thatís bad. I stay up too late and play non-existent games on my crashed computer. Iím too fat and my clothes look awful. Iím broke and shouldnít con people into buying things for me. Iím not all that, Daddy. Iím not. Mothers are supposed to be sweet and good. Good to you.
Bitter tears splotched on the creamy page. I smeared them away with the edge of my nightgown. I didnít dare cry. No one could hear me now.
I havenít played games in months. You know whatís wrong with my computer. I sure donít. Itís broken though. A blue screen of death. I canít help the shape of my face and I donít think anythingís wrong with it. Esven if there was, shouldnít I make the best of it? You donít think Iím ugly, Fa, I know that. But it hurts still. I donít con people into buying me things either. I canít help being the only girl. They shower me with the girly things Iíd never have the guts to try anyway.
The pen lingers on the page, but this private conversation is suspended. I do not know if I can chance to write my heart to Him. For all of my sixteen years, I am afraid. Afraid to be real with Him.
DaddyÖFatherÖI am fat. I know I am. Size 3 isnít exactly flattering, but at least itís not a size 5! Iím trying to eat well. Iím not skipping meals or throwing up or anything. I donít have an eating disorder. Iím not trying to insult you either itís just thatÖif Iíd lose a few pounds and my stomach didnít stick out so much, Mom would quit picking on me. She wouldnít call me fat and she wouldnít complain about my clothes, which really arenít that tight. People also wouldnít ask me if I was pregnant just because a tunic top doesnít fit my shape like everyone elseís. Iím unique arenít I? Thereís nothing wrong with meÖis there?
I cannot bear to write anymore. It is getting too personal. Too much to handle.
Within the patchwork walls Iíve built, I am safe enough for now.
The golden wrapper glittered from the faint glow of the lava lamp. I closed the diary and tucked it in my spare purse, hanging inside my winter coat. It is safely hidden. Bending beside the bed, I retrieved the candy bar and tore open the wrapper.
First bite is sweet. Second is bliss.
Then the crying begins.
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