Saturday, October 23, 1971
Things are really hard for me. I cry all the time. This morning I was crying soon after I woke up. Dad walked into my room and said, “Those who try to get sympathy only get contempt.”
That made me feel even worse and I just lay in bed until noon, crying, only softly, muffling myself with my pillow. Dad said I’m too old to cry (“You’re going to be 21”), but I think I’ve just gotten old enough to be hurt badly enough to cry this much.
My cold has now broken out and my nose is all stuffed. I just don’t feel like living anymore. I want to die.
Yesterday I went to Kings Plaza and got my horoscope from a computer. It read: “Your love life will change for the better in all respects . . . Beware of close friends, rainy streets, and extracurricular activities . . . Forget the past: You are on the right track. Stay there.”
It sounds favorable, but I have no desire to see if any of it comes true. I don’t think I’ve ever been this unhappy. Unlike what Dad thought, I’m not crying for sympathy, I’m crying because that’s what I feel like doing.
Get a hold of yourself, I tell myself, and I do, for a couple of hours, and then – pow! – it hits me and I get sick or have an anxiety or just feel so damn lonely. It seems that everyone has someone but me.
I dragged myself to the movies and even saw Boys in the Band for the third time; it does improve with age. Alice called when I arrived home; she’s a good friend. She said there’s nothing I can do about Shelli except leave her alone to make up her mind.
But while cleaning my room, Gisele said I should sleep with Shelli “since you can’t really lose anything anymore.” She laughed when I asked if she knew any voodoo curses and then told me about a spurned wife she knew back in Haiti who put a curse on her husband and another woman so they “stuck together like dogs” when they had sex and couldn’t be pried apart.
Geen opmerkingen:
Een reactie posten