Diaries tell stories

13/7-2009 - my first entry

Dear diary, this is the first time I'm writing in you. I don't know if you will find my life interesting or if you will hate me after this, but I need to write down my thoughts somewhere. That being said, you probably do not possess the ability to understand me.

It must be a terrible life, being a diary. I honestly feel sorry for you, but I hope that you will feel at least a little entertained by having my thoughts carved into you with ink, unable to be removed except for with the almighty tip-EX. Even that leaves a faint mark. How rude.

I suppose this is where it's time for me to introduce myself, it being my first entry to this diary.

Honestly, there's not much to say about me. Me as a person isn't that interesting. My appearance is plain, my personality isn't very interesting and my grades in school are just below average.

Overall, I'm not a very interesting person and that's not hard to figure out, as I'm usually by myself. Not that it really bothers me to be alone, as it's a pain for me to socialise with people.

'Socialising was never my thing' is a phrase commonly heard by teenagers, who claim to have problems socialising but still, somehow, have a great amount of friends.

I'm worse.

I simply cannot talk to people.

Have a normal conversation.

Or even ask about something important.

The reason being that I'm just so envious of everyone else. Every time I try to engage in a conversation, I only feel envy of the person I'm talking to.

I know envy is one of the seven deadly sins and everything, so I guess that would make me a sinner - however, I've long since stopped caring about that. I'm probably going to hell when I'm dead anyway.

If there is a hell. I wouldn't know, as I've never been there. Yet.

People live such easy lives. They talk to friends, attend class and usually do their homework. They think it's the end of the world when they forget doing their homework. If they only knew better...

I'm not gonna claim that I'm not a pathetic person, because I totally know I am. I'm always thinking that I'm living the hardest life ever and that everyone else have it so easy, while it's not really like that. After all, I do have a family that I feel safe in and that loves me...

Almost.

Kinda.

Actually, no, that would be a lie.

My family is just me, my mother and my stepfather. My biological father left us when I was only 3 years old, so I don't have any memories of him. Half a year later, my mum married my current stepfather. Now she's called Erika Johnson, instead of Smith, as she married John Johnson, my stepfather.

His parents must have had a weird sense of humour, naming their only child John Johnson. You would have thought that he would be upset or angry over his name, but he's simply too stupid to think that far.

As you've probably realised, I hate my stepfather. The reasons are many and I'm probably going to go over quite a few of them throughout this diary. Perhaps people don't usually plan their diaries. I wouldn't know, as I've got no friends to discuss it with. This is the way I'm doing it, anyway.

The first memory I have of my stepfather was when I was six years old.

The six year old me was sitting on a sofa, reading. My mum was out meeting some friends, which left me and John alone. It was a late afternoon and she wouldn't be back until after nine, she had said before running out to the car, making useless attempts to cover herself from the pouring rain.

As a child, I was a very relaxed person. I never ran around screaming or playing loudly. Instead, I sat down reading books. Books always amused me and I loved the thought of being able to enter and explore another world, by just reading words of paper.

But as the rain poured down harder and the smattering against the windows grew louder, I started getting more and more bored. I had already read this book several times over and the story wasn't intriguing enough to keep me interested for a longer period of time.

So I decided to search up John and ask him to tell me a story. As a child, I loved it when John read stories to me. Later, I got too old for that and I wouldn't like it if John read me a story.

Or did anything at all for me. Or to me. Especially not to me.

The six year old me spent ten minutes searching the house for him. In the end, I had searched all rooms except for his study. A sign on it read 'Do not disturb'. I opened the door anyway.

The first thing that met me was screams from his computer. Not the screams of a dying person, but the screams of a person feeling immense pleasure. Of course, as a six year old, I didn't really know the difference. But that's at least what I've figured out now, several years later.

John was sitting in his chair with his back to me, breathing heavily and repeatedly moving his hand up and down.

I was not able to see what he was doing and, being as innocent as all six year olds are, I couldn't guess either. He didn't appear to have heard me coming into the room, so I called out to him.

With his pants down and something between his legs looking really frightening and huge, he turned his chair around and looked at me with an angry expression.

It was more than five years later that I came across the term 'masturbation' and I understood what my stepfather had been doing at that time.

Just that alone is perhaps not a good reason for me to hate my stepfather. But it disgusted me.

After being caught doing... "That"... he grabbed me and shook my shoulders really hard, to the point of almost making me cry.

"DO NOT UTTER A WORD OF THIS TO YOUR MOTHER! DO YOU UNDERSTAND?!" He yelled at me, shaking me much harder. This time it really made me cry and I replied with a faint "yes..." before collapsing on the floor. He sighed, pushed me out of the room and closed the door.

Dear diary, I'd love to tell you more about my really dull yet kinda tragic life. Sadly, I cannot write more. My mum has a thing for hating people that write diaries so I'm writing this in the bathroom. I've been in here for about half an hour writing this and I don't want her to think I'm doing something suspicious.

I say I don't need any friends but... It was nice having a conversation with you. It was kinda one-sided, which is to be expected when talking to your diary, but I still enjoyed it.

Diary, you're a good listener. I'm glad I spent those 3.67 pounds on you.

//Katie