6:00 p.m. - 04/30/02
mercy.
I guess I've been trying to avoid thinking, which is why I've been avoiding this journal. What do I say? That I completely fell apart Sunday, and had to track down a doctor on the weekend? That I nearly attacked my parents today for mentioning Rogers? I want to know how they can say that word, as if they know what it means, as if they don't understand that every time those syllables cross their lips I feel sick with grief and loneliness. When I fell apart Sunday, I called and Brea answered. And she was so beautiful. She couldn't talk because so many people were struggling, but she asked me to call again later, and when I did and things were still too hectic for us to connect, she asked me to call her soon. So tomorrow night she's working, and if the good Lord's willing, I'll catch her at a moment worth prolonging.
When I got a hold of the doctor, we talked for about a half and hour and he asked me to go for a walk after hanging up. I went out by the pond and watched the water for awhile. For the first time in a long time, I imagined what it would be like to appear on Brea's doorstep, to be her family. I thought I was getting past that, but it really can't happen. Not now, not with things the way they are. Mom comes home and says, "You look like you've had a rough day" - the truth is the roughness just begins with her arrival. My fuse is invisibly short these days, especially with my dad. I'm so tired of him acting like a child; I'm so tired of feeling guilty simply for feeling. I remember RED. I remember what it was like to get angry, stupidly, childishly angry, and then return with a smile saying, "I was mad." And people being like, "Yeah, I know;" now things are fine. I want so badly to be in a place where I can feel and be supported in it. Dr. R is pushing me to talk to my parents about how to deal with my feeling, but it just pushes the wrong buttons for me. I want to ask him how optimistic he would be if sixteen years passed and my parents were still seeing him once a week. I've been in this family for one plus sixteen years. My optimism's dwindling. I don't know how to make him understand.
The research paper's nearing a finished draft. (Thank God.) I can't remember the last time I felt so stupid as I have writing this. It'll be so nice to finally have the first draft finished and to fix it up for school. I can break then, give myself some time before answering the other questions, and preparing it for the college application. Most of the work I did on it today centered around the "pro-ana" business. I nearly cried, working on it, but I'm happy with the direction - that part at least - is taking. I didn't let my frustration and defensiveness write; I remembered that I was one of those girls...well maybe not "pro-ed" but I was enmeshed in that world. In some ways, I very much still am.
I see the doctor tomorrow. I would give nearly anything to not flip out and hit someone. And I would give nearly everything to do so and let the feelings free.
a disjointed
chord
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