Sophomore Slump

Tuesday, October 21st

Dear diary,

My guidance counselor (“Free Therapist”) suggested I start a diary. She says she’s noticed how much I enjoy writing and how much of an escape it is for me. She won’t read it if I don’t want her to, but she will look at it. Just to make sure I’m doing what she said. Because it’ll “help me” somehow. Whatever.

This will probably turn out like everything else I’ve done: I’ll try it for a while, like it for a bit, then throw it in a trash. I haven’t kept a diary since elementary school. My mind tends to not remember much and I am fine with that. I don’t want to have to record painful memories to come, as I know they will come. I don’t want to have to recall painful memories of sophomore year; two months in and it is already crap. “It gets better,” they say. It hasn’t gotten any better.

But, it is true that I like writing. Can’t deny that. I like to take shapes, turn them into words, put them together and make sentences. I draw pictures with a dulling pencil. I live in my head, where it’s easier to breathe.

As much as I don’t want to admit it, there are some things I need to get off my chest…

I am a total and complete nerd. As much as I hate it, and hate myself for it, I have brains. I do not think I’m all that pretty; my self-esteem is very low. I distance myself from my friends at times that all these brains and other people’s expectations take a toll on me. Like right now, for instance.

My workaholic mother spit on my report card. Six As, two Bs. Not good enough. To her. I hate her. I steal the rum in the kitchen cabinet and she doesn’t care. I steal her cigarettes to smoke in the bathroom stall in school and she doesn’t care. But she does care if I get less than an A in any class. It’s some kind of paradox, living with her.

My best friend, Mikey, is in lust with me. I do not understand why. I am the earth and he is my main satellite. It’s pathetic and adorable. He tells me he loves me. He holds my hand. He kisses me on the cheek. His heart breaks when he reminds himself that I do not feel the same. He worries my mom is getting to me.

And if I am the earth, Frank is the sun—he is my light, my warmth. My source of life. But that is all I am. He is there, I am here; he has no real need to notice me, and so he doesn’t. Not as anything more than just a friend. I’m just another planet in his solar system; he need not worry.

His birthday is in a few days, on Halloween, and I’m invited to his costume party. Me and every other person in the school. (He is very social.)

Is it more than slightly pathetic that I have more guy friends then girl friends?

While still on this allegory of the Milky Way, I may as well tell you about Frank’s Mercury. The hottest planet, the planet he’s closest to. Her name is Diana. She is my friend and I envy her in the most unhealthy way. She and Frank look at each other the way Mikey looks at me.

I had vowed I wouldn’t try too hard on this diary thing, and I’ve already said too much. I need to go do something to distract myself from this. I’ll try homework. Or call Mikey. I’m sure he’ll love to hear my voice.