[October, 1994] Half-Past Caring
“Looking at my watch and I’m half past caring…” – The Trash Can Sinatras
Boy, I’ve really been neglecting this baby. Well maybe that’s because it’s not any type of release for me and I don’t write about anything that I do, think, or feel. I just write about music and my stories (which are actually the two most important things for me). I already kept a diary, and that was mostly a depressing heap. At least that had a lock on it. And anyway I don’t want to write about my emotions. It’s that simple. I saw a really cool/disturbed NIN lyric written on a desk yesterday: “It won’t give up it wants be dead Goddamn this noise inside my head.” If I see it again, maybe I’ll add one of my own.“In my dream I was drowning my sorrows
But my sorrows they learned to swim
Surrounding me going down on me
Spilling over the brim…” – U2
I remember what happened now.
We were supposed to write in our journals every day, and our teacher collected them every couple of weeks just to make sure we were writing the required amount of pages. Ms. Donaldson said we should write something and read something every day, and this was her way of trying to insure the former.
The entries were glanced through and we were told that if we didn’t want her to read something, to indicate an entry as such or fold over the page and she would respect our privacy.
In the early days of keeping the journal, I wrote a private entry, folded it over, and wrote in big block letters DO NOT READ down the page, underlining it several times. I don’t remember the specific content, but generally it was about boys and my despondency that none liked me, at least not the ones who I liked. Typical teen stuff, but it was me expressing my insecurity in a vulnerable honest way that didn’t happen often.
A day or two after writing the entry, my father was leaving for work at the same time as I was leaving for the bus, and started trying to reassure me, in the most awkward parental way imaginable about boys and how they would eventually like me and to be patient or some crap like that. He was as uncomfortable saying these platitudes as I was listening to them, and it wasn’t until I was on the bus that I realized:
HE READ THE JOURNAL.
Granted, the warning on the folded over page was more an invitation than anything, but still. Dad came into my room from time to time to play Nintendo, a point of contention for us because I felt it was an invasion of privacy. My father and I also fought over the Nintendo when we both wanted to play different games (yes, it felt like growing up more with an older brother than a father at times). But Nintendo was nothing as far as invading privacy was concerned compared to reading my journal. I must have left the notebook where he could see it while he was in there (or maybe he did some snooping), and he obviously could not resist the forbidden page. And also couldn’t resist blabbing about it in an indirect but obvious way.
Not only did this add to my self-consciousness and insecurity, it sabotaged this journal. I remember carrying around the notebook everywhere with me, but feeling increasingly frustrated that I couldn’t say what I really wanted to say within the pages. In fact, I some of the later entries are include code words and phrases, and I just hope I can decipher them well enough when the time comes.