Stoic_Slaughter's journal

I truly appreciate all of your comments on my previous entry. I read them all, regardless of my silence. It has become more and more difficult to post because of my mother, but we have come to an agreement, and I am allowed at least a little computer time on the weekends. I still write as much as I used to, and I appreciate this experience because it has inspired me. Unfortunately, all is not well. Recently I've realized that my hair has been getting thinner. It has even been falling out on my pillow as I sleep, in the shower, or sometimes if I merely brush it. I went to a doctor to see if everything is okay, and he said that it is probably thinning because of unhealthy amounts of stress. I really don't know what to do. I'm not concerned about my hair, but I am concerned about the "stress" issue. I don't feel stressed...I usually feel content. I have always thought of myself as a generally healthy person, but this has made me think otherwise.

Thanks again for the comments. I always read them, I promise.

I write poems.
I spend a large amount of time and effort on them, making sure they rhyme to the letter and represent the feeling I am trying to convey to the best of my ability. Of course, you know about my journal (or lack there of, now) and how much it troubled me (and troubles me still). Having said that, I also had a book of poetry. This particular book was very close to my heart, and I wrote in it nearly every day; it contained hundreds of poems. I went to write in it yesterday, and I discovered that it was gone. I thought that perhaps I had misplaced it, but no...it was gone; and oh, the smirk upon my mother's face. The smirk that answered immediately all of my queries. I dropped to my knees, right then and there, and I wept as I had never wept before. My mother looked concerned, and she asked, "What is the matter with you?" and I said, "You threw away my poems." She replied, "Oh, those things? They're far too morbid! I didn't know you even used that book anymore...I threw it away with your journal. There is really no need to keep revisiting old memories, especially memories as negative as the ones you wrote about!"

I can't bear it. I simply cannot. I wish death would come to me, although I know enough not to bring it upon myself.

I suppose this is going to be my most stupid entry yet, but quite frankly, I don't care.

My mother is really starting to get to me. She's very "depressed" all the time, and she treats me like I'm her personal servant. It's been going on for at least seven years now, but I always thought of it as the norm; that is, until I was exposed to other families. The throwing away of my beloved journal was bad enough...but now this has gotten worse. I try my best to bite my tongue in high hopes that my parents will pay for my college in a few years. I mean really, what else can I do? My father sees it as well...but he says, "I have the rest of my life with her; just bear it a few more years."

That's about it, I suppose. No need to be verbose.

This post was edited by Stoic_Slaughter on Dec 01, 2003.

Back to the "I love you" thing..."
There is a certain someone with whom I am quite infatuated. I told him that I love him, and he said, "I love you, too." But of course, since "I love you" is a colloquialism, he meant, "I love you as a friend; in a strictly platonic manner." How was I to know this? I said, "No, I'm in love with you..." and he said, "Oh." How could he be shocked? The words simply hold no meaning anymore.

But I dwell.
My mother found my journal...(not this one, my secret little combination lock journal) and she unlocked it and read it. How could one do that to their child? I screamed at her and ran into my room, locking my door and crying because I felt so exposed and betrayed. I went to see what she had done with my journal, and I couldn't find it. I came to find out that she had actually thrown it away. The pain was unbearable. My thoughts, my feelings, my anger, my love, my sadness...all of it; gone. I had kept that journal for at least four years now, and it was almost entirely full. I loved it as one would love a friend. What would possess anyone to do such a thing? Still I grieve profusely. I shall never forgive her for this.

Today had been a sad day for me, as I was feeling a little neglected. I walked outside to talk to my cat, because he seemed as lonely as I. However, upon meeting him, I realized that he was not lonely at all; he had found himself a little rodent friend, and he was beaming with pride that he had, apparently, killed it. Of course I started crying, rushing over to see what he had done to the poor thing. I saw that he had injured it on the neck, and it was bleeding. I ran inside to get a tourniquet, (a small piece of paper towel) seeing if I could save its life. Somehow, I did. It ran away, and I felt better for the moment. I told my mother what happened, and she shrieked with terror. "Why didn't you let it die? Oh Charles, look at this...now we're going to have a mouse running around here." I don't understand. I never kill bugs, rodents, snakes, or anything unless they might harm me in any way. What was that little mouse doing to her? It just wanted to live as we all live. Maybe I'm too stupid for her, but I hate killing anything. It's not fair that I should kill something just because I can, or because I don't like it. I'm not above other living things because I have higher intelligence than them. It's not fair.

The phrase, "I love you" is killing me. Today, I just blew up. Someone said, "Bye! I love you!" and I screamed, "No, you don't love me!! You...don't...even know me!" I guess I've been suppressing it for a while, but I get sick of casual acquaintances claiming that they "love" me. Perhaps I'm unnecessarily bitter because I am a very sincere person, and I can't nonchalantly say, "I love you." I have to mean it. I think the world in general is lacking the interest and beauty that it once had. No one has to think anymore. Why talk to someone when you can just instant message them? Why read when you can have things read to you? What's wrong with saying "I love you" and not meaning it? I feel as though there's no way around this, and I have to conform to a world of casualty, where "I love you" is an acceptable colloquialism. We'll all just drift into an apathetic state of mind...but it will be polite apathy. Honesty is overrated anyway, right? -_-