Reminiscing and a Rant

I'm going to try this. I didn't do much of it last time, when I was going through everything. I don't know how I survived.

But I think I'm stronger this time. Or maybe I'm just numb. I'm not sure which...

How do you escape something? I'd like to run away.

You know, writing has always helped me, always been a part of who I am. I remember being four or five years old and in my parent's old Montecarlo that my dad paid a hundred bucks for. We were on the highway, on our way to church, I think, and I sat in the backseat next to my brother, scrawling away for all I was worth in my giant gray spiral notebook.

It was a story about a girl and her dog. A big, shaggy dog. Complete with illustrations.

*smiles fondly to self*

I was nine. We lived in a one bedroom apartment, all six of us. My mom, dad, brother, uncle, cousin, and me. The kitchen table was squeezed into a corner in front of the TV, and every night I'd perch on the old bar stool my dad had picked up and hammer away at my rustic typewriter. I loved that thing.

Somehow the feeling of creating lines and marks on a page that have meaning, that transport you from where you're sitting to another time, another place, another world entirely...somehow that's the best feeling there is.

So I'm going to try to do it more often.

I'm afraid. It doesn't make sense to tell people what's going on in my life, because it sounds like I'm looking for attention or pity. I'm not. I'd rather be quiet. I don't want to complain. But some days I feel like I'm going to burst, or like I want to hurl myself out of the window and find myself in an injured puddle on the asphalt. What do I do? Where is the outlet? How can I manage when I come home at six thirty in the evening and it's ten at night before I get to do anything for myself? How do I manage when my mom is constantly in pain, or depressed, or needy, or...I'm painting a bad picture of her.

She's going through so much. It's not all about me. I hate seeing her in pain, or upset. I don't know how to make it better. Why, why, why? Just, why? Is this supposed to prepare me for something later on in life? I hope not. I can't imagine what I'd have to face that would require me to be going through this now.

And while I'm at it, I might as well just pour out everything.

I think I'm a horrible person. No, really. I must be. I'm selfish (as is evidenced by my constantly complaining and wanting to be by myself when my mom needs help....

No. I can't take this. It's ten fourteen pm. It was ten oh six when I got out here to write. My mom just called me from where I dropped her off, and now I have to go pick her up, and drive her friends home.

Bye.