2006-06-09 - 2:50 p.m.
Picking scabs.
Reading over the fifteen pages of journals he sent me. But you know what I start to remember, instead of the goodtimes like he asks?
I remember the hours, days, I have spent looking at his back because he is turned away from me in bed. I remember the curve of his shoulder and deltoid and the marks on his skin when he is facing away from me. I remember hearing words like "damaged goods" and "unloveable" and them hurting worse than slaps to the face. I remember the pressure to go to a Nor-Am-- such a silly, small thing, but it took away as much dignity as when he told me I am not a human being.
I remember the constant pressure to like rap. I remember the disavowal of my mother. I remember the forced shit-talking on my brother. I remember him driving away from me yelling "lose weight," mostly because I hadn't let him tickle me earlier that day. I remember the chocolate cake upon which he gorged, along with the crackers he told me I shouldn't eat. I remember being told that crutons would make me fat. I remember being told that I am chubby. I remember, exactly, precisely, the look on his face when he hated me.
I remember the requests. To not speak to my mother. To skip graduation. To ride my bike to his room by 8:30 (when he wouldn't get of bed until 11 anyway). To buy the short white skirt, but not actually wear it. To let him and his friends call me mar-jee. To never tell his roommates how old I was. To call 5 people on my team and request a 24-hour delay in our departure to a race. To fly to Reno within 24 hours because my dad had made me hang up while I was driving. All the things I let him say were OK.
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