2003-06-03, 10:08 p.m.
I have a story inside of me that's dying to get out. But no one wants to hear it.
I'm begging to be held. To have someone to listen. My eyes burn.
I'm so alone.
My past haunts my nights and dreams. It keeps me ups for hours on end. I can't sleep as it reels. I watch the scary pictures flash on the inside of my eye lids. I wake up screaming.
It's okay. It already happen. I can stop screaming. Crying. Panting. It's just my past.
I remember the days where I didn't live at home. I remember the days where I tried to run away. I remember when I screamed and banged my head against the closet over and over because of my mom. I remember cutting and cutting and cutting. I still see the scars. I remember sleeping pills and pills and pills.
I remember. God I remember and I Don't Want To Remember.
I remember the cops being at my house because of my mother pulling a gun to my brother. What child has to go through that? I remeber crying at school because my mom would yell at me over the phone. I remember. I remember my mom forgetting me over and over and I'd have to walk home. I remember when she hit me over the head with a bowl. Or telling me she hates me or that I'm a brat or a bitch or selfish or stupid and stupid and stupid OVER AND OVER.
I remember being home from school and she randomly yelling to some voice "DOn't worry! I hear you! I'll call the cops!" and I said "what?" and she said "she's being hit again. Our neighbor. we have to call the police."
I didn't hear anything. But I believed her. because she was my mother.