26

1986




Fall



I stayed in my room most of the time. I would write my own comics and listen to the radio. I only came out to eat dinner and maybe watch a movie with my brother.



Life was lonely when not tortured and traumatic. I couldn't pay attention in class but my grades did improve a little since elementary school. I often would hide notebooks underneath my biology book so that I could draw pictures or write poems. I found school work very uninteresting. I found most things uninteresting. Except the feelings that I still got in special places. I generally felt tingles in private places and wished for the boys to touch me and ask me out. That never happened and I knew that father would never let me go anywhere with boys anyway. I wanted to be normal and yet I pulled further from the norm and would daydream about darkness. All sorts of darkness is what I would dream of...monsters, dark woods, corners of my bedroom untouched by the light of the moon at night and about suicide. I dreamed of ending this torment, this endless boredom called life. Sometimes when I thought about suicide, I would smile. To me, suicide wasn't death, death was much worse than suicide. Death lived up the road and behind my father's closed bedroom door and even sometimes in the mirror. Death by other hands was always unpleasant, but suicide, the death by mine own hands was sometimes inticing. Sometimes...it made me tingle...sometimes..the thought of suicide was almost orgasmic.



I think that it was how I saw escape by my doing, my control of my life ...this is why suicide was so inviting. At least that is what I told myself.



1986



I explored masturbation extensively. Whenever my parents would leave the house, I would get excited by the prospect of finding objects in my room to stimulate myself with. I would put rubber bands around my nipples, or bobby pins, sometimes I would tie string from one to the other to keep them stimulated while exploring my womanhood. Each and every time that I was allowed this time alone, it ended in an explosive orgasm. I was amused by my sounds, my body but yet felt a certain shame every time I enjoyed these experiences.



1987



I hated my barbie dolls that sat untouched on my dresser. My room still resembled some frilly pink disaster. I took some dolls and shaved their heads, while others I dyed their shiney blonde hair, black. When I was really angry, I pulled their heads off. I had one ken doll, I buried him in the back yard.