08/21/00 - 02:48 AM

I read bigboy�s diary today. In one long sitting. An entire journal, an entire story consumed with barely a pause. I hardly noticed as the sun set outside my window.

To sound silly and overemotional, I was moved. I cried over his story, over his pain, over his bravery. His strength and ability to face his demons, to turn his face into the water and scream, even if it meant drowning.

I crave that type of courage. I need to scream. I want to be able to find a voice that has the right words to tell my story. To paint my picture of pain. Talk about things that at this moment I can�t even remember. I need to be able to uproot my thoughts and sling my polluted memories out onto the air. I need to be open.

I have yet to confess my entire story. Whenever I even hint that there is a story, my listeners are fascinated. Fascinated with the horrible details. They want to know what exactly happened. They want the gore; they want it to play out in their heads so they can envision just how awful it could be. They want to be there with me in those scenes, they want to watch. Like a play, like a movie, they forget that every time I dig those memories out of my head I suffer the same insanity.

It�s not a movie or a play. It�s not entertaining. I can tell you, I can describe everything in appalling detail the best I can with the inadequacy of words. But you will not know how I feel. You will not know what�s like to be me. You will not understand why I am the way I am. Why I can not remember. You will watch, captivated by my gruesome experience, taking entertainment pleasure in my pain. But you will never understand. Not unless you sat there in my place. Not unless you lived in my head. Not unless my past belonged to you.

You�ll scoff perhaps. Accuse me of exaggeration. Of being melodramatic.

Yes, I am so sick I would invent such repugnance. Just to get attention.

You fuckers.

I put my life under examination because I wonder things. How can I be the way that I am? What factors pushed me to this extreme?

I do not want to be one of those people that shout:

�My life is so horrible because of my horrible past.�

No. I don�t want to be a victim; I don�t want sympathy or compassion. I do not want excuses. I will not blame my life, my mistakes on my childhood. I will not make excuses for myself. I am not ashamed of who I am.

Sexual freedom. An attribute that I cherish. My openness with sexuality. My ability to be sexual. I don�t know why it exists. I always believed that I would never get this far. I thought one kiss on my lips would summon memories of the wrong lips pressed against mine. I never believed that I would learn to love and take such pleasure in the male body. That I would adore every line, every curve. I didn�t think I would ever be able to touch a cock.

But I can. Experiences haven�t held me back in that area of life. I can experiment with my body and not have to worry about flashbacks. Nothing to haunt me when I am making love.

I am grateful for that.

I have been honest with the important boyfriends. Told them bits and pieces. They always act angry. They declare that they will never like my father. But I watch as some of them are bent by his charm, his fa�ade. And I lose respect.

Inside of me, I secretly wanted one of them to confront him. To tell him that he will never see me again because of what he had done. I wanted them to punch him in the face and hurt him. I wanted them to be man enough to punish him. But none of them were. And I preached about how it is not their fight. But I wanted someone to fight for me. I wanted someone to be brave for me. I wanted someone to hurt him for me.

I needed to watch him suffer.

They could not protect me the way they should have. They did not stand up for me against my father. And in my eyes, in my heart I lost respect. Even though I told them to stand back, I needed one of them go forward anyway. Out of love for me and hate for him.

Of course, they did not understand. Whatever I told them was just a movie to them. They were detached, distanced from my story. They had no desire to push themselves into the plot. None of them wanted to fight for me.

No real love there.

Ghost asked me one night. And I tried to tell him. I tried to find the words that would match the replay in my memory. To describe vividly enough to give him a picture. I began to cry soon. My voice breaking, he tried to pull me close and comfort me but I just pulled away.

�It�s okay to cry,� he told me gently.

�No!� I yelled. �I have cried over this enough.�

When I spoke it was hesitantly, I halted often to try and just remember. I couldn�t remember what happened. I can�t remember the order of events. How it began. The last time. The worst time. I can�t remember any of that or much of the stuff in between. As I spoke he began to break. He could not bear to hear me tell it. I could not bear to tell him.

Sometimes I think that I am not real. I don�t really exist. This diary doesn�t exist; my world does not exist. I am just a doll. A doll that someone plays with for entertainment.

Watch her, mommy, she�s so smart.

I can�t be real.