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Survivor Journals Every couple of weeks, the
group will be issued a "challenge entry". The
site will post a excerpt from the challenge entries, as
well as the link to the complete entry found on the
journaller's own journal site. Diet Week #12 Goal : Immediate goal: Lost to date: |
I dreamed I was back in the flat on Leavenworth St. again last night The bars that now line the windows were gone and the cars were parallel parking again and it was all as I remembered it back then, except I was sitting at a desk working on a computer--and compuers hadn't been invented when I lived on Leavenworth St.
I was in my room, with the storybook dolls hanging from the walls and the imaginary snakes under the bed. The door was closed but I could hear the voices from the kitchen. More appropriately, I could hear one voice. It was my father's and he was yelling again.
"She's done it now!" he said. "What's all this journal business?"
"Now, now," my mother, the peacemaker, said. "She's always writing something. The journal is just another project for her."
"Have you READ it?" he screamed. "She's gone too far. She's talking about me in a lot of these entries. Now I know how she really feels about me."
"I'm sure she didn't mean to be hurtful," my mother said. "Look. She talks about your sense of humor. She talks about your music..."
"You always stand up for her," he shrieked. "I know where I stand around here."
My mother fell silent, as she usually did. There was no point in trying to argue with him.
I sat there and I felt guilty. I had crossed the line. I had pointed to the elephant in the living room. I had betrayed family secrets. It was all my fault. I tried to remember the things I'd written. I never thought he'd read the journal. It was meant to be secret, private. I'd posted it under a different name. How had he found it? I hadn't lied about him. But I hadn't sugar coated it either. The journal was for me. To help me deal with my own feelings. Did I care that he had now read all of it? Yes. I cared. Because it had shattered the momentary peace around here and I was the one to blame. Again. He opened the kitchen door with a bang. I called him into the room. I was trembling. "I don't think I've ever heard anybody be so mistreated," I said, speaking of the way he had been yelling at my mother, almost blaming her for the things I'd written. "It wasn't her fault," I said, my voice quivering. "I made that decision on my own. I have lots of stuff to work out with you and I can't talk to you about it, so I decided to put it in writing." He was silent. He glared. The familiar feelings were back in the pit of my stomach. I hadn't felt that way in a long time. And then I remembered. I smiled. "You cant hurt me any more," I said. "You're dead. I'm writing this journal so I can learn to forgive you." He still remained silent. He didn't seem quite to frightening now. "You did a lot of bad things," I said, surprised that I was speaking so boldly, and now so calmly. "You scared me and you made me frightened,"I continued. "But it was a long time ago. I'm not a child any more," I said. His figure began to fade, and with it the walls of my bedroom. I was no longer on Leavenworth St., but back in my own office at my own desk. The vision of my father was not barely visible. "In spite of it all, I love you, Daddy," I whispered. He disappeared.
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| created 9/30/00 by Bev Sykes |
