When Tammy was making pork chops for dinner earlier, she said something so funny. I don’t know if she was kidding or serious, and I was like, ok, whatever. Her beliefs are her beliefs, but I never believed or understood or even heard of any such thing. She told me she said a prayer over the pork chops so that made them kosher. Does that mean that if I said a prayer over Gloria’s picture that it’s kosher? It just sounds so funny and has me laughing to myself.

I meowed with Shadow for a while (he meows back when I meow), left a message on Andy’s machine, then called Bob. He was in the process of reading my letter and told me he’d write me a letter after we hung up.

The dinner with Kim went fairly well, but he still wishes she’d visit more. He’s lucky if he spends 5 minutes with her on the phone when she gets home from work. I’d get the same thing. When she was home it was nearly impossible to talk to her for 5 minutes without interruption. Her phone would ring, she’d have to make a call, run out to the store, go to class, go to a friend’s house, go to a family member’s house, go on an ambulance call. Bob said she did say she planned on seeing me some time. Wow. Maybe she did mean it. She did call me, after all. Who knows for sure whether or not she’ll ever call again or see me?

Bob also told me she said something I already knew. She had told me this personally, but even if she hadn’t it was quite obvious. She’s not satisfied with Mark cuz he never wants to do anything with her. Just drink beer, watch TV or be with his buddies. She’s sorry she married him. He was always a very quiet and mellow guy. Never been a conversationalist.

Bob really enjoys my letters late at night when he’s up bored stiff. He has fun figuring them out and putting them together. I can just imagine what’ll be in his letter. I write across the pages from bits and pieces of journals and backward. Bits and pieces of lines from the TV if I have it on at the time and running sentences together with no spaces between the words. Also, I’d include some Spanish, since I can’t write in sign language.

Later...

I hope that this April 12th at 12:30 PM, will not be the same as it was the last 8 years. This is something that is difficult to write about even though I’ve talked about it. Out of those that I have spoken to, very few have heard it in vivid detail. At least, the details I’m able to remember. Well, maybe I’m now ready to put those horrid memories on paper. I am only just beginning to be able to write more about certain people and events from my past. It does feel good to confront and deal with these issues rather than block them out. I mean, in this journal. Maybe it was hard for a while due to two reasons. One is that it’s quicker to speak words, rather than to write them. Two, is fear of anyone reading this, but who could? I don’t know too many people. Then again, do I really care who reads this?

Whatever my feelings are, I have a right to them. Whether they’re good or bad I must obviously feel certain feelings for a reason or else I wouldn’t feel them. More and more as time goes on, I’ve been talking less and less and writing more and more. This is what I wanted, though. I basically talk about trivial things unless I feel something’s important enough to say. Such as what’s been going on since moving in here. I know who to say what to and who not to say what to but I refuse to lie. I could’ve told my parents I was happy here. It would’ve sounded great and made their day but I’d have been lying. Of course, they try to condemn me for the truth and my true feelings but I don’t let anyone tell me how to feel. If that were possible, I wouldn’t desire to be a professional singer. God knows it’d sure be easier not to want to be.

As soon as I get a microwave, that’s it. I’ll miss my dad but it’s not worth my mother. Yes, the past is the past but it’s not that simple and it doesn’t end there. I blame my mother much more than my father but my father was still no angel. Plus, one has to take one moment and forget they’re your parents and just look at them as people. The individual people that they are. Who are they? Not my type. The packages of clothes and hair accessories were nice, but it doesn’t replace parents and good people. I don’t admire the people that they are but rather than set out to change them, as they would do, I’d just rather not be bothered with them. I’m tired of Mom’s moods and attitude. And cuz she’s too weak to admit to her mistakes, she’s got to try and stick her guilt, blame and shame on Tammy and I cuz she’s too weak to deal with her problems. To say, “I was wrong,” or “I should’ve been the one to seek help,” is too low for her. No, it’d be really lowering herself in her opinion. She’s too “strong” for that so it’s easier to say I’m the wacko. Much easier to avoid repairing the damage she’s done and continue to dump on her kids. She can only do it verbally now. Too bad and poor, poor Dureen.

Since Andy’s late on calling, as usual, I’ll get on now with April 12, 1983. It’ll be 9 years ago since the day I jumped. As most people know, there’s a difference between a memory, a thought, a dream and a flashback. I’d rather have nightmares than a flashback. Flashbacks are all too real. You’re reliving the whole situation out. You’re at that place, thinking you’re whatever age you were. Flashbacks are always of something traumatic. Never happy. They’re so terrifyingly real. Several therapists told me they’re common in most PTSD people. I could be asleep or up in a fantastic mood, but every April 12th at exactly 12:30 PM, it replays itself. All too real. All too scary. I’m scared. I must be home alone that day. For the last 9 years, there’s been no escaping it. Even if I’m busy, really happy and laughing my ass off. If I’m asleep, I bolt up wide awake. I relive the whole ordeal, believing it’s real, I’m there, it’s 1983 again, I’m 17 and I can see so much detail. More details than I can remember at any other time of year. Sort of like looking at a picture of a house, compared to standing right in front of it and seeing it in person.

I’ve been there 8 months, I walk into Debby B’s office for our session, and she says, “So. I hear you’re on suicidal observation?” I say yes and she knows I must have an “escort” at all times. Someone bringing you to and from places. She makes me feel worse about myself. She tells me I’ll be there another year and 4 months. Till August of 1984. I feel like a prisoner. A mass murderer. Trapped. A caged animal. She allows me to leave alone after the session. I’m scared. I’m miserable. Feel no good and good for nothing. Much worse. I want to scream out for help. Want to cry. What good will it do? No one will hear me. No one will care. I walk numbly into the wing, as they called it, then into room 13. The far wing towards the back of the house. I know I’m going to do something stupid. Something I’ll regret. I look out the window. It’s lunchtime. The other girls are passing by. They’re entering the back door. Into the cellar to come up for lunch. I want to scream for help. I know it’ll do no good. I’m trapped and I want out is what comes to mind. This isn’t fair! I’m not a bad kid. Somebody hear me! Somebody care! Help me! Love me! I’m trapped! I want out now! The girls are gone. I’m not a criminal. I’m just a girl whose mother felt it was easier just to cast aside like a piece of rotten fruit.

I can’t go on now. Another time, maybe.