How about those journalsMature

This is just some personal journal entrys to write my ideas, feelings, thoughts and plans. or just to rant and !%&*& about life.

"My mom left my dad this summer, I am pretty messed up from it, I am not going to school this year...I am probably fucking up my whole future. I guess I am just a stupid messed up teenager with issues" - Patricia Teichroeb, 14 years old

Sitting on my couch on a random afternoon, My daughter and I decided to pull out my storage box that contains all of my pictures and memories. She was thrilled to find all the picutres of her aunts and I smiling and goofing around for the camera. As we dug deeper into the box, we came across my journals at the very bottom. The journals that hold every detail of my adolescence and every oppressed memory that my subconscious mind has worked so, very hard to bury. Of course, my daughter who is soon to be 10 years old, wanted me to read my journals from the time when I was her age. It was bittersweet. We laughed as we pointed out bad spelling, awful grammar, boy crazy rants and funny arguments with my mom and sister. Through the laughs, we both couldn't help but tear up as we noticed a sad cycle in my story. There was always insecurity. There was always a need for a boys attention. My mom was always gone. I was always watching my brother. My dad was never mentioned.I constantly spoke about how bad i needed to lose weight. there were tons of stories on how my parents did not attend school functions or parent teacher meetings. My sister was always gone out with her friends or on the phone with her flavor of the week. I couldn't help but feel so sad for the child who was writing these journals. The adult me  would hug her and tell her how important she is. How beautiful she is and how wonderful her life would one day be. That material and body image are not the only things that matter in the future. I would tell her that her mother loved her so much but was fighting her own battles. Oh, if only I could go back. If only she knew that her little brother that drove her nuts would grow into a beautiful young man with so much love in his heart for Jesus and his friends. If only I could tell her that he would one day be her best friend and hold every place in her heart. Her sister would become her confidant in her darkest hours, their fights would only consist of things like, where to go for lunch. If she only could see that her dad was finally happy. That all the times he was hiding in his bedroom or gone to work the night shift, he was also in pain. he was lonely inside and chose to deal with his battles silently to protect you. Sweetheart, you are loved. You always were and always will be. This is what I would say to that little, young Me. 

Once we got through a few journals, I held on to the ones I wrote when I was 13-16. These are the books that have been forbidden. These are the books that held all my hate and fear. All my disgust and disgraces. Every desire and every experience, on lined paper. The paper that litterly, held my fate. The fate that would one day become a sick mental  breakdown and leave me in the hospital psychiatric ward away from my family. A fate that whipped me through my young adult years so fast that my memory can barely catch up with everything that happened. The timeline of my events are blurred. But I read them. I read the books. The ones the held my present and my future. I read them one by one...with my old friend tobacco and a hot cup of coffee.

The End

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