It matters becuase?...

Further into the Abyss of my Innermost Soul

Back from TN... Sorry to all my faithful readers (Meaning NO ONE) for being out for so long. My modem died. Again. Like you actually care.

The only people that really care about me and follow me every step of the way, offering the best advice they can are Michael, Taryn(If she was around this summer, she'd help), Judith (who's got to battle her parent's to get online) and my Dad.

I can trust my Dad with almost anything. He even knows about Michael... Doesn't know much other than I REALLY like him (and I think he understands what's between the lines). I even manage to talk to him about Religion and Politics without getting my ass shot out of the sky. I can't talk to my Mom about any of those things, even though we do share a semi-deep bond. She's always too busy to give a f***.

Michael I can trust with anything... He knows I'm Wiccan. He knows some of my deepest secrets, and he actually understands, which I can't always say about my Dad. He knows the things I can hardly trust myself with, even though sometimes he has to pry it from my very soul with a crowbar... C'est la Vie.

Judith, Taryn, Amy & Mouna (If I could get in touch with them for more than three minutes.. grrr) all have problems of their own, and we help each other cope. Judith has social problems, Taryn has Family matters, Amy needs to find a REAL guy to fall head over heels with, Mouna has... well, her whole life, from the way she talks about it, and I have my dark, night-&-pain-loving self. Did I mention Amy, Mouna and I all have suicidal issues?

One of the ppl I went to TN with read my journal while I was away at dinner. She commented that I needed to get help, like the professional type.

Don't even ask "A penny for your thoughts?" I'll put my two cents in without question.

The professionals suck royal ass. The best help comes from people you can actually trust and who know you at heart.

And about my thoughts in this diary, and how she said I needed help, here's another two cents.

NO SHIT!! You apparently didn't see me plotting my own death in class, did you? Luckily, over the summer and in school (A MUCH BETTER school, thank you Memorial Mother f***ers), I met people that I can connect with and trust, without having them talk trash about me behind my back. You may think I didn't see the ugly glares and stares or hear them say how they thought I was a lesbian, but I did. For the first time since moving to this damn, stuck up, "high and mighty" neighborhood, I have REAL friends. So what if a small group thinks I'm on drugs. I probably should have been, to dull the pain of a living Hell at Memorial. Maybe you didn't get the picture, (insert your name here, IM sender, you know who you are), but I'm dead tired of the whole "Fiddlesticks! I chipped a nail", "Oh. My. GOD!!My hair is out of place", "Ooooo, you said a dirty word!", and fake romance crap all to gain popularity. They can, in the eternal words of my good friend Adriana, "go screw a cow!"

That was probably more than two cents, more like ten. whatever.

Yeah, now I'm depressed. I finally admitted to myself this morning that I've probably been developing a bit of an alcohol adiction. Again, I could care less. I've submitted to the fact that by the time I get out of high school in four years, I'll be a bit of an alcoholic and probably smoking. I realized I'm getting addicted to it when I was sitting in the garage and breathing in the smoke from my parents' cigarettes and was enjoying it.

Even though I've picked up those "bad habits", I've gained so much more... such as TRUE self-confidence, not the fake crap I had and MMS.

So, IM sender peep, you now know that I DO need counseling, but that if I get it, it'll be from friends and family. Pros suck ass.

Take that, you assholes that call yourselves my school counselers. You didn't even scratch the surface of my problems.

For example, in sixth grade, I figured I'd see if maybe I could find a way to talk my Dad outta his alcoholic world and into the family again. I went to Mr. Graham, the school Counselor at MMS. He basically told me there was nothing I could do but turn him over to the police before something bad happened. The catch was, I played it smart and didn't let him know if my Dad was or was not an alcoholic, so he couldn't do anything. Since I wasn't about to turn my Dad over to the blue coats, I decided to talk to him.

This is actually how our bond grew deeper. I was brutally honest and listed all the things that had happened when he was drunk on several occasions and how much it hurt the rest of the family in a letter and stuck it in his lunch late one night. The next day when he got home, we sat out in the garage and talked about it, something I wasn't comfortable with at the time, but we now talk all the time.

Well, Mr. Graham, kiss both my and my Dad's asses. We proved you wrong. My Dad IS NOT AN ALCOHOLIC ANYMORE. And you suck, too. Wherever you learned to be a counselor, go get yer money back. And, for Gods' sake, get sympathy lessons!

I've probably ranted a bit too much for one evening, so I'll go back to Solitare and Dark writings that I obviously can't post on Stories.com for "Adult content" that I probably shouldn't be writing anyhow, because of my "young, tender age".

Heh, yeah right. That's another story entirely.

By the way, IM sender and anyone else, you should probably stop reading my Journal if you are offended by a cynical, older than their age, twisted and obviously screwed up teenager.
Because I ain't changing a thing about myself to please your sorry asses.

Good night, Bitches and Bastards!

CerAnaka