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8-19-01 - 8:48 p.m.

I'm gonna see Janet tomorrow. It's been a long time since I was this excited about seeing her. At our last meeting she suggested we meet twice a week. I was a little hesitant, but after this weekend, I'm all for it. I think I should just be given my own hotline, so whenever I'm feeling down, I can call my therapist. Then again, the poor woman would be more swamped with pointless telephone calls than operators at a Jerry Lewis telethon, so maybe it's not such a good idea after all.

I went shopping with Bryan and Rob this morning. We were going to go up to South Coast Plaza, which is an enormous and fairly swanky shopping mall outside Los Angeles, but were too lazy to drive there. So we ended up going to Fashion Valley, which is sort of everybody's default mall. It's an two-storey, outdoor, wannabe mock-ritzy sort of deal sandwiched between a major department store at each end (Macy*s, Robinsons May, JC Penney) and stuffed full of trendy preppy stores like GAP and Abercrombie & Fitch.

We had a good time. On the way home, I did 83 on the freeway and, seeing Kellie and Chris in the lane next to mine, I edged as far over to them as I could so I could hand Chris (on the passenger side of Kel's truck) a doll. It was stupid. But it was something to do.

Rob went to spend some time with Chad, and Bryan went to attempt to knock some sense into his parents. So I was left alone. I had the urge to paint my toenails pale purple, and as I was doing my left foot (with my right hand, which was sort of awkward) the little piece of mechanical pencil lead in between my thumb and index finger stood out at me. It's very visible at the angle used for painting one's toenails. I just kept staring at it and hating it more with every passing second. So I cut it out with a tiny penknife. It bled a lot more than I thought it would, and it hurt like hell. But at least it's gone and I won't have to stare at it anymore. Turning my hand over, I gazed again at the finally healed gash on my palm. It's definitely a scar. It made me so angry with myself that all I wanted to do was to just take the penknife and stab myself in the eyes and gouge them both out. But I didn't. I like my eyes.

I do not like my hands, however. As we all know. So I drew a small "X" on the tip of my thumb with the penknife. I drew two other, larger ones on my palm, and then moved onto the other hand, where I already had my huge scar. I then drew two on my right wrist (not by the vein-I'm not suicidal). Then the phone rang. It was Haley, asking if I was still up for the Jewel concert tonight. I looked down at my bleeding and torn hands and said I couldn't make it, that I was feeling sick to my stomach. After hanging up the phone, I rinsed off the blood from the sink and sprayed some Bactine all over my hands.

I changed into a shirt with sleeves long enough to sufficiently cover up my hands and have been "abnormally quiet" (to quote Rob) all night long. He's home now. I didn't tell him what I'd done, just told him I was feeling low and asked him to please keep me from doing anything stupid.

He isn't doing that, though. I'm still being stupid. I've been crying off and on for over an hour. He didn't ask me what was wrong, just tried to hold my hand, but I said, "No!" and pulled it back and turned away and told him to just let me cry.

My grandparents really fucked up my weekend for me. They came to town and treated me like the scum of the universe, which is exactly how my biological parents treated me, and how a lot of other people have treated me. And my hero let me down. Sharon has always been my hero, for the simple reason that she saved my life. But she didn't stick up for me. She just ignored the fact that Gramma and Grampa K-her own parents-were treating me, her supposed daughter, like a pile of shit. I wonder: Would she have said anything if they had treated Kellie or Carrie that way? She has said she loves me just as much as she loves them and Ricky, that we're all equal in her eyes. I'm beginning to doubt the sincerity of that claim. If she loves me, why isn't she defending me from hurt, like a mother is supposed to?

The only thing I have ever wanted in my entire life, the one thing I used to ask "God" for, the single item on my Christmas list year after year, was to be loved by my mom. Or a mom, at least. I've seen people grow up and live great lives without any acknowledgement from their fathers, but they all at least had a good mom. I used to watch Kellie and Sharon outside doing mother-daughter things, and listen to Kellie's accounts of her annual Mommy & Me visits. I thought that being adopted by this pinnacle of motherhood would finally allow me the opportunity to attain this love I so desperately sought for 16 years. And I believed I'd finally had it, that I finally knew what it was like to have a real mom. The first time she hugged me as her legal daughter, I felt this enormous flood of happiness in its purest form wash over me. I never wanted to let go. She loved me. She loved me. Just for me. Just how I was. Just me.

And in five minutes' time, she made me reconsider the validity of that emotion. I must not be worthy of such a gift, after all. Perhaps my initial belief was correct. But it was a pleasant fantasy while it lasted.

 

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