I sat on my floor for a long time.
Had to think about some things.

I had this old journal on my shelf,
I took it down.
Ripped out all of the pages that had anything on them, arranged them all in a pile.
And I ripped them up.
One or two at a time.
Sometimes in slow, even little piles...
other times messily, angrily.
I put all the pieces into this box I have
in my room from christmas,
and just kind...yeah.
Spent about half an hour, just ripping the pieces into nothing.

When I was done , I picked up the journal and a pen.
and I wrote out, quite carefully some good things and some bad things,
and a decision.

I should go back to normal school.
There's reasons, but I don't want to talk about it on here.


And when I was done that, I put it in with the pieces and closed the lid, and moved it away.

Mom came in shortly after I had finished.
Talking, and nonchalant.
She said she loves me.
And then she said she loves jenn,
but that jenn just doesn't know it.
I didn't even bother with the reply that
popped into my brain.
"She doesn't know it because you never tell her."
and she tried to make jokes about things that had been said
while they were yelling.
I couldn't smile.
I knew she wanted me to, though.
And I could feel my lips lifting up once and awhile.
She asked me for a hug, and I gave her one.
She invited me to go with her to Aunty Sharons tomorrow,
but I said no.
She asked me if I was going to be okay, and I said yes.
All the entire time, I was just tightly held in.
Inside myself. Away from her.
And then she shut the door and I wanted to cry again.
Because then I knew I wasn't going to be okay,
and that I can't just be the same anymore.

And I sat back on the floor, and I picked up my old art book that was long ago filled,
turned to the back of one of the collages and picked up a marker.
The words were already in my head, but I had to set them down.
To see, if my feelings about the statement changed, to see if I was wrong.
I'm not.

'Of all the thoughts that I could think,
the one that sticks is about how I'm fooling
them all.
And probably even myself.

I'm not okay. Not even a little bit.'

Because I'm pretty sure she doesn't know, just how deeply it is that I'm feeling
about things. How sad I can get, she doesn't know about it. I don't even know.
I've been slipping it away and covering it up for so long,
that I'm not even sure anymore.
And I can feel myself, locking me away.
My personality, and thoughts and everything good or usefull.
Packing it up, and getting ready to throw away the key.
I even am starting to want to retreat into myself,
it would just be so much easier.
I suppose that means it's time to do something.
I'm just not sure what.