Dear Diary

2:04 am – Friday, April 16, 2010

I am tongue-tied and ready, ready to be pulled, tugged, and put aside for safekeeping, for this unyielding escapade is far from pleasant and terribly nudging at my wits end. My childhood dreams do not possess the ability to avenge me from my conniving self and the self-deprecating errors of my ways, nor had they ever. The place inside my heart that remained a valid necessity to my sanity, was torn away today by no one’s fault but my own. I had been blinded by the steep belief that my curiosity, and desire to be loved by none other than her sweetest downfall, would never allow my composure to fall victim to unfathomable destruction. Sunnybrae’s twenty-year windstorm of instilled confusion, hatred and un-infiltrated love blew me away this morning, and blew down my life, hard. These vicious traditions I deliberately place myself within always glisten the moment before they erupt. My breath stops short, my feelings find themselves digging a whole further into my shallow grave, my sleeping patterns find trouble just around the bend, and thoughts of suicide creep up behind me, all along booming in ample sound like flowers blooming upon my grandmother’s heavenly home on a sweltering summer day in Los Angeles, the city of anything but angels in my eyes. These moments, comprised by my foolishness to feel, do not have a name. I do not victimize myself, and I believe that this hurtful and ill astute assumption has only been conjured up due to the perception accounted for through the peripheral vision belonging to that Grade-A bitch. If anything, I have been a fool to let myself fall too far astray from the call of prospering through the divine matter of hardship that God has blessed over me. I have tried endlessly to gauge it, this calamity I have restlessly fed and watered these past 26 years of my life, only to come up short in a pond, created by none other than myself, fueled by masculine ties that tend to rouse the weakness within, killing the strength that I, as a feminine entity, have rights to acquire in this vindictive, double-standard fueled, social order.

12:25 am – Tuesday, April 20, 2010

Lonesome and friendless, I can explain how much it hurts only so much. I live as a byproduct of two eccentric yet predictable imbeciles, though I have spent all my life fearing their individual demises. Am I an intensifying dream or a diminishing luminary? I spend the hours in a day fearing the next, running situations in my head, and opening my heart up to self-deprecating ridicule. Can I ever admit to some of those bad mistakes that I have made? Will I always be the brunt of the jokes that bitches, those I once called friends, continuously tell? I’ve been a lot of things: a best friend to someone prior to high school and its malicious intentions, an ungrateful child, an outspoken granddaughter, a disrespectful teenage daughter, a pawn in my mother’s game of chess and a victim to the abuse of the sperm supporter who impregnated her. I’ve done a lot of things: I cheated on my first love, an overweight fuck who ruined my self-esteem granted I fucked with his first, during my junior year of high school and its malicious intentions, and I kissed a boy that this girl, one whom I have kept in touch with ever since kindergarten, had fallen head over heels for once upon a time…and frankly, I DON’T GIVE A FUCK.
My reveries are executed in an array of sheer lilac and mint pastels. I will live frozen within the continuum process, sleeping in white, breathing at gray and dying in black. I am waiting for my time; vacated, and void in compelled vengeance against anyone. My legs spread out before me welcoming him into my vagina and its moist earth, my womanliness simply intrepid, and my liquid released in the name of love, as the man of my dreams, with thighs that could crack walnuts, wraps me up in its definition for the first, and final intimate instance of this life’s voyage.


12:43 am – Monday, April 26, 2010

Colorblind, you are. Can’t detect the acquisition of your daughters imminent emotional health, it has no innate value to who you are. If it talks and walks it’s good enough to fuck, to you and many other men like you. It’s been almost a decade, and I am no longer your beautiful child. I may have been nothing but a fool to believe that I could ever have been anything that precious, to you. I bit my lip and you detected hurt in my eyes. As I said yes, you proceeded to ramble on and patronize me for feeling hurt at my adult age of twenty-six. Be a man and own up to your own accusations. Your father will never hold you, as mine will never hold me.
Spanish music blared loudly from the kitchen as I walked through the front door tonight, the front door belonging to my Iranian mother. His wife sleeps in my adolescent sanctuary, the place I grieved over the loss of my first love, the place I wrote my first story while mother tried incessantly to get me to complete my homework instead, the place I’d entertain myself with Party of Five on Wednesday nights, and the place where the soundtrack of my life began with The Five Stair Steps the day he announced his impending departure into the vagina of his Salvadorian girlfriend. He sits around and watches Spanish soap operas with her, as delight frames his face in ways more potent than it ever did when he’d watch basketball games with my mother. I’d love to turn his world upside down, if only for a moment.
You caused this infidelity and it has got to be the most difficult hurdle to have to overcome in my life and as miniscule as it seems to others, it has left my body dilapidated, anxiety-ridden, and apprehensive of having inherited your genes and perhaps committing adultery to another. I used to write stories with this appetite for art that was anything but satiable. I resent you for raping me of my ethereal sense of creativity. I wish sleepless nights and comatose mornings plagued you the way they do me, and I wish even more for your father to make you feel worthless when you try in vain to explain the habit forming issues that derive from depression, but wishes, my dear father, don’t come true. They never have and they never will. If you only knew the sting upon my skin each time I realize that my mother and I no longer share the same name. I tried to run away and you caught me that summer day when my mother’s dear sister called the police with assumptions of my ass being beaten. You caught me with a knife in your hand, granted I had a knife in mine, but what father does that? What legitimate father does that? I will sit stumped upon that thought even after my dying day is through. I was 18 and granted I was still to respect my elders, but I was 18, an adult in my own right who deserved respect herself nevertheless. I was defending myself from a man that had impregnated my mother. What was your excuse for assault with a deadly weapon?
I feel like Doogie Howser and Dorothy Jane Torkelson, as I sit here in front of my laptop trying to end another episode with a brilliant line or sentence. The truth is that, though I have never thought highly of my level of intelligence, flashes used to exist in the past where I felt my words leaving impressions upon my heart with magnitude, magnitude that might have impacted humanity someday.
Now, I sigh with a conflicted smile because of you, my dear father, having robbed me of that too.