It is hard to grow up knowing that you are different, but not being able to understand just how

August 22, 1976

Sometimes I don't understand anything at all. I learned today that I hold in my angry feelings so that is why I hardly ever get mad.

When I get mad I usually will go to my room and think over what has just happened. If I hear about things people have said about me I don't get mad, but I get mad if they say something about my friends.

When I get mad I will come up to my room and tell you everything. I think it will help me. I don't feel guilty any more about Bob since I have told people about it. I have nothing I can think of to feel guilty about. I don't feel guilty about Roy anymore. It helped me to write those letters just to say how I feel. I wrote them to get it off my mind not for other people to read. I really do trust my sisters to not read this because I might be mad at them sometime and write what I think because I can't write anything nice if I am mad.

I was mad at my dad today. He has been getting on my nerves lately. I only like him as a person not a parent. I really think he is an unreasonable guy when it comes to parenthood. God-damn, I hope I won't be a single fucking bit like him.

I want to have a baby but I wouldn't know what to say to her. Bob was going to fuck me. He almost did and he would have if Dawn didn't interrupt. God, was I mad at her! I felt like saying to Bob, "If you really want to be a father you sure as hell can screw me, but you better call up my Bitch and tell her first." He would have. He would have said, "Hey Bitch Lowe, I'm a gonna screw your daughter better than hell, so long Bitch!"

No, but I really like my mom. Sometimes she is a real bitch, but mostly she's alright.


A note about the formatting: I am going to cross out the text that I have crossed out in my journal - I find it interesting what I chose to scribble out or exclude.

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Jumping straight into the yellow legal pads that I used as a teenager. These are painful, awkward journals filled with boasting and profanity. Some of the entries are calculated entries to lay the foundation for my schizophrenic diagnosis. I started leaving journal cookie crumbs in 1976, writing letters from "partner". After a year or two, I developed the alter ego as a homeless young mother. 

These early journals include a lot of wishing to have a baby. I yearned to have a baby years before I was sexually active. My bravado in the entry above about "Bob" and our almost/not quite sexual encounter was just that - fantasy. I was not sexually active until the next summer - so this journal will have lots of discussion of sex and my naive ideas about what sex was. 

I begin using drugs during this year, so I will certainly act more and more "streetwise" - pretending to myself as I record the thoughts and observations of the days as they pass. 

Paging through this journal before writing this summary, I want to apologize in advance to my siblings. I love you all. I say mean and cruel things about you and our wonderful, loving parents. Please keep in mind that I was only 13at this time. I have just finished eight grade, about to become a Freshman - the upperclassmen in junior high school. I am learning about relationships. I have not yet figured out that just because a boy talks to you doesn't mean that they "like" you. Just because a boy wants to get you alone to kiss you and feel you up, doesn't mean that he likes you either. 

There is so much confusion. I am developing as an observer of my life. I am finding my voice. This is Susan, out of control teenager, trying so hard to grow up and be liked and accepted by my peers. 

It is awkward and painful to watch. Don't avert your eyes. These pages are filled with cringe moments. I hope you find forgiveness for the confused young woman I was becoming. It is hard to grow up. It is harder growing up knowing that you are different, but not being able to place just how. I want to notice how I discuss and analyze my feelings especially. Feelings are still confusing to me. Especially since I discovered two years ago that I never realized that I had such a limited emotional vocabulary.

Just like 14 year old Susan, I yearn for you to accept me for who I am in these pages. It took me a until I was 30 years old, and near death, to finally accepted this awkward teenager. I am still her - she is me. I am her.