Journal 4-17-12
Typing the way I’m supposed to is a pain. But I think it’ll pay off later. I hope it will.
Seriously considering writing a book. Now isn’t really the time for it though.
Sigh. I can’t do shit while I’m in A&P II. It’s too intense of a class.
I think I should keep writing a journal, though. It’s good for me.
Surprisingly, my fingers seem to know how to type already. It’s like I memorized the keyboard after all. I’m not sure when. But trusting my muscle memory is getting me farther than I thought it would.
Maybe that’s my real problem. I have no trust. Well, that’s not really a secret or a big epiphany. I worry about everything. Try to have everything under control. But life doesn’t work like that.
I’m just always so damn scared of everything… A lifetime of being an outcast, and being labeled “disabled” kind of shot my confidence. It’s growing back, but it’s slow.
Maybe, once a day, I should try taking a small risk and trusting myself to get it right.
The truth is, not everything is controllable. Or predictable, for that matter. Sometimes, there are too many variables to figure out how they will all interact to form an outcome.
If I really want to know who I am, I have to start trusting myself.
Why did I ever stop writing journals? Why did I ever stop writing, period?
I think because I lost faith. I lost faith in myself and that made me lose faith in my writing.
Maybe it’s not too crazy to think I might change the world someday. Maybe it’s not crazy to think I can do so by writing. Who knows?
I’ve been trying to make myself invulnerable. I thought I could do it through knowledge. Or by being tough. Or threatening. But the truth is, I’m not very intimidating at all.
I’ve been trying to hide how vulnerable I feel from even myself. Or at least, when I know I have to deal with people, I put it on. But I have so little downtime in between interactions, I keep it on.
“You wear a mask for so long, you forget who you were beneath it.” That’s true.
It’s all part of being human. When you choose fight instead of freeze or flight, fear turns to anger. Human beings are hardwired that way. But you’re supposed to be able to admit to yourself that you’re scared. You might not want to admit it to others, since an enemy would view it as a weakness, but you’re supposed to admit it to yourself.
And the truth is, I am scared of people. I’ve had people treat me like dirt before, and it hurts. A lot. Especially when it comes from people who are supposed to be your family.
Thanks a lot, Donna Kisling. And you too, Jon Gribskov. Or should I call you “Dad”? No, you never acted like one, so I won’t call you that. I hope you can hear me from beyond the grave. You were a crappy father, and I meant everything I said to you, when I finally got sick of being treated like a doormat. I’m not letting people like you wipe your shoes on me anymore.
Oh, and let’s not forget all my wonderful classmates from Eastgate Elementary, Tillicum Middle School, and Newport High School. Oh, and the staff at Tillicum Middle School and Newport High School deserve mention too! The administration of both basically sided with my peers in labeling me a freak and proceeding to blame everything you possibly could on me. Fuck you!
Thank God some of the teachers were nice to me. Mr. Stoddard was pretty awesome- he actually seemed to kind of get what I was going through.
But all the rest of them? Shame on you.
What the hell is wrong with you, treating a kid like that? Couldn’t you see I was having problems? And that what you were doing was making it worse?
And it was because of all of you lovely people that I never realized that the rest of the world wasn’t like that. That some people actually have some good in them.
And how would I have known? Everywhere I looked, it seemed, people were treating me like some insect they had to deal with buzzing around their head. And generally just being dipshits.
The only people in my life who have stuck by me, and treated me the way I deserve, are my family. Not the Gribskovs, you guys can kiss my ass. I mean the Kasmars. My mother, Nancy, and my real father, the one who actually acted like one, Ken. And my grandparents, Rosemary, Cliff, and Bob.
And my "chosen family": Leah, Eda, Patricia, Max. My awesome friends.
Anyways, it’s about time I stopped punishing my family, and myself, for the way those people have treated me. I’ve always been afraid to show love to people in case it got thrown back in my face, like it has been before.
But you know what? I’m done. I’m sick of being afraid and hating myself and keeping secrets.
So, there it is. The truth.
Have a nice day.
--Ilsa
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