Journal No. 20

JOURNAL NO. 20
January 1977 - October 1977 Age 19

"I feel like the next big gust of wind that comes along will pick me up and blow me away."

January 23, 1977

Figured it was about time I started a new journal. I don't really know what was wrong with the last one ... bad vibrations or something. Or maybe it was the pink cover. Whatever it was, I simply didn't feel comfortable writing in it. Maybe this time will be different - I hope so. I like green, anyway ... a good sign?

No Psychology class this morning - hallelujah. The building caught on fire or something, and all classes were evacuated. I didn't see any smoke, but there were security guards running around all over the place, and sirens in the distance. Needless to say I'm not a bit upset at the prospect of missing Psych. Came into the little campus cafe, "The Hotdog Hilton," to have a Coke and enjoy an hour quietly before Sociology.

At least the fire in Building 10 helped break up the morning.

Am reading "Sweet Hostage" by Nathaniel Benchley. Started last night before bed, read the first three chapters. I've never heard of the author but I like his style. Very readable. Good book.

TONIGHT!

Straighten bedroom - vacuum rug

Wash dishes and straighten kitchen - damp mop floor?

Shower and wash hair

Read Chapter 3 in Soc. book

Straighten living room

Re-write poems

Letters to Dee Dee and Janie

Evening

I really feel comfortable with you, Journal ... I hope I can just hold that feeling for the next 100 pages. I think one big problem with my last journal - the pink one - was that I wanted it to be a diary more than anything else. The PROBLEM was that my life wasn't going anywhere, so I had nothing to write about. I gradually lost interest in the whole thing, shoved the notebook into the back of my closet and forgot about it.

This ledger is going to be very unorganized, probably quite disorderly at times. When I feel like writing, I will, and it won't just be a boring run-down of the day's activities. Anything I feel like writing is OK ... poetry, cartoons, bit & pieces of conversations, jokes, letters, you name it.

I WANT TO START TO REALLY LIVE!

(... but how? and when?)

To You

You sit in my heart
Like a penciled drawing.
Yet
There is still hope that someday
You may be erased.
(Written for Steve P.)

Going to run a little "experiment" now - smoke a little bit of the weed that Scott gave me and see what it does for my creative powers. I've always wondered if smoking weed would make poetry slip out of my head easier -- think I'll give it a try.

OK. Let's see, I just smoked about four bowlsful, and I'm starting to get kinda high. The high starts on the sides of your head, right above your ears - a pressure, an almost leaden heaviness. Then your eyelids begin to feel inordinately heavy, your lower back becomes numb, and you start to think all kinds of strange things. It sounds terrible to anyone who's never been high,

(PAGES MISSING)

Wednesday morning
January 26, 1977

Does everybody - at one time or another - become as thoroughly disenchanted with life as I have become? Is it normal to be so continuously depressed and discouraged? Or am I abnormal, somehow? Is something wrong with me? My life is going exactly nowhere, and the more depressed I become about it, the worse the situation gets. I feel like someone trapped in one of those tiny rooms with shrinking walls ... I struggle and push against the walls and fight to keep them from crushing me, but the harder I struggle, the faster they come at me.

This morning when I was getting ready for school, I put an album on the record player, and when the first song came on I felt a very small, microscopic speck of hope deep down inside of me. Something about the music - the beauty of it, simple and clean and untouched - made me feel like maybe things could change and get better for me. If music could be that beautiful and worth listening to, then maybe I should stay alive to listen to it. Maybe that's what my life can be about ... listening to and appreciating the music. But every time, no matter how wonderful the music is, no matter how well it sweeps me up and away from boredom and discouragement, the record player always stops, eventually. It has to. The arm lifts and takes the needle away, and when the needle is gone the music is gone. It's all reduced to nothing more than a circular hunk of black wax and a lot of tubes and wires and electricity. None of the magic remains - only more discouragement, disillusionment. In a way the discouragement is even intensified when the music is turned back into silence and nothingness.

There's another problem with living solely for the music - it is always someone else's music, not mine. There can't be any real satisfaction in living for something that you didn't create yourself.

I know I can be creative. I know I've got it somewhere inside of me, hidden away somewhere. I know I could write poetry or novels, or paint, or play the piano better. It's not that I'm incapable. It's just that I'm too bogged down by frustration. Or maybe I'm too lazy. The incentive just isn't there anymore.

God, I could sit here for hours, writing page after page of heartfelt feelings ... but what's the point, after all? Would somebody please tell me just exactly what the point would be?? No one is ever going to read this crap, for one thing. And writing isn't DOING. It's not going to help things one single iota, even if I sit here for the rest of my cramped little existence and push this pen across paper until I collapse. Every minute I spend scribbling is time wasted.

I've got to start doing things ... find some way to get myself free of the little room with the shrinking walls.

I am trapped within this exitless room of shrinking walls
Frustrated by an intellect I cannot touch
And an ignorance that has me bound and gagged.

OK, now an exercise in wishful thinking. If I could change three things about my life, what would they be? Easy. First, I'd want financial security - money, the green stuff, a job and a bank account. Secondly, I'd want independence. Thirdly, mobility, maybe. I guess that comes down to a drivers license and a car to insure the mobility, and a place of my own for the independence. Money, mobility and independence. The Big Three.

So much for wishful thinking. Where has it gotten me - another paragraph on a page? Big deal. So I've defined what I want - so what? So what do I DO about it?

The problem is that everything goes around and around in circles. Damn it - there simply isn't any way of breaking free, is there? Unless I could manage to make a dent, a tiny one even. and break the hold this circle game has one me. I can't really get a job because I haven't got mobility ... I don't drive, and even though I'm now an expert at riding the bus, I'm still hampered. There are still a lot of places I can't get to on the bus. I don't have a drivers license because I don't have a car to drive. I don't have a car to drive because I don't have a job to pay for one. Without money or mobility, independence is impossible.

See what I mean? The proverbial "vicious circle" has its hands on me. I'm suffocating. Nothing seems possible.

But - if you can stand it, because I can't - there's more.  As long as it isn't more POETRY, OK? Lots and lots and lots more. So much more I can hardly stand it. Every time I think I've managed to define the tumultuous feelings and problems and needs inside of me into a few simple, clear-cut ideas, BAM! I suddenly remember that there are a hundred more.



Sociology Notes
1-26-77

Family - education - religion - economics - political

Exploitation is only when one person is ignorant of the fact that payback is necessary

Chapter 4 - CULTURE

Culture: a system of socially-acquired and socially-transmitted standards of judgments, beliefs and conduct as well as the material products of resulting patterns of behavior.

Evolutionary change - cultural change

Genetic diffs from animals:

1. We developed larger brain capacity to body weight than any other animal.

2. Developed upright posture - larger heads - consequently, humans born prematurely (compared to animals) - more willing to learn

3. Opposable thumb - greater dexterity.



1-27-77

I said there's more, and there is.

I hate my father - I think - which is a terrible thing to say, but if the feeling is there I can't ignore and deny it. It has reached the point where I can't even stand to be in the same room with him. Everything about him irritates me ... I'd move out of the house in a MINUTE if I had the means to support myself.

And Scott ... there have been endless problems with Scott lately. We've been going together for almost eleven months now, and although I love him fiercely, intensely, I can't understand this thing that's happening between us. I've been abnormally depressed lately - it seems like I'm always tired and I'm always crying and my head never seems to stop aching. That doesn't make me much fun to be around, I imagine, and if I really loved him the way I say I do, I'd take a "leave of absence" for awhile ...

... long enough to start straightening out all the SHIT in my life, without continually clinging to him and expecting him to support me. It's not fair of me to be so dependent on his consolation, when he has problems enough of his own to deal with. I've been selfish, snapping at him unreasonably, expecting him to be a mind-reader, a stand-in father, an escape route.

Maybe if I can find some kind of inner strength, I'll be strong enough to leave him for awhile. Or maybe, simply quit expecting SO MUCH from him. I've got to start expecting more from ME. But how?

Later - another thought:

I wish that I could afford a psychiatrist. I'm not insane, or depraved, or anything as drastic as that, but I definitely feel that there's something wrong inside of me - like a loose wire or a blown circuit, something that's making me do the things I do. I've never been this low before. Even during the good moments, the times when things are smooth and lucid, I can feel the turmoil is still inside, hidden away, churning and waiting to be released. It's like any minute some little thing could set it off.

(TWO OR THREE PAGES MISSING)

So any moron could read what I've written and tell me that the logical thing would be to turn it all back over to God. In light of the way things are, why not just hands the reins back over to Him?

Why not, indeed? Time to go to class.

Friday the twenty-eighth
(January 28, 1977)

First time I've written in you at home, Ledger. Quiet evening relaxing in my room - scented candles burning, watching a little late-night TV. Got a letter from Karen today, which was a relief - I guess she's not mad at me for not coming to see her over Christmas. Dashed off a five page reply, filled with all the latest local gossip. Hope this means we're back in touch.

Slightly better frame of mind. Got to start taking my problems one step at a time. Took care of some library fines today, helped Scott write the essay I promised I'd help him with, things are straightened out with Dad, and I put some money back into my bank account. There's still a TON of unsolved problems to deal with, but the way I figure it is I'm not going to be able to do anything realistic about them at 12:07 a.m., so there's no point in brooding about them now, is there?

Read some old ledgers tonite - last summer, primarily.

Saturday the twenty-ninth
(January 29, 1977)

Scott and I are going out tonight, to a party at Greg Nelson's apartment. I'm sitting here in my bedroom, waiting for him. Happy, relaxed. Think I'll forget about "things" tonight and just let myself go. I've been so wound up lately - it's high time I forgot about my problems for a while and just enjoyed myself. He came over this afternoon - we went to Burien to do some shopping for his sister's birthday, and then we had lunch at Taco Time. After that we came to my house, sat in my room watching TV, listening to records   ... he read some of my old journals.

Sunday the thirtieth
(January 30, 1977)

Well, so much for "forgetting about things" and "letting myself go" ... last night was a total fiasco, and as a result Scott and I aren't even speaking.

I just don't understand how it can be one thing after another like this. Just when I start to think I'm getting ahead, something always happens to turn my world upside down again. I really detest myself.

Monday the thirty-first
(January 31, 1977)

Everything in the world that could be wrong, is.

Things started out fairly OK with Scott this morning, but now he's started playing games with me ... putting his arm around me for a second and then taking it away with elaborate haste ("Oh, I'm sorry ... old habits are hard to break"). I imagine he thinks he's going to emotionally whiplash me into submission. I'm torn in two because I just don't know what to do. I have pride, and after all I wasn't the one to walk away on Saturday night - HE did. I don't want to break down and beg for one more chance, but knowing spineless, gutless Terri, that's what I'll probably be doing in two hours ... on my knees in front of him, beaten into a pitiful lump of contrition, tears in my eyes, voice cracking with emotion, begging him to love me again. God damn it. Is it any wonder I hate myself the way I do?

I suppose everybody thinks about suicide at one point or another. Freddie Prinze, the TV star, shot himself to death last weekend. My Aunt Jody's younger brother, Dave, killed himself during his senior year. In Sociology we've talked about suicide a lot. Tom Horton (the youth pastor at my church) said once that when you're tempted to commit suicide, it isn't that you want to die so much as wanting to really start LIVING. When you think about it, that makes sense. Look at all the people who make only half-hearted attempts at doing away with themselves - they're probably just crying out for attention.

I have no one to talk to. Sometimes I feel so lonely I can't stand it, holed up night after night in my bedroom with just my TV to talk to. I would give anything in the world just for someone to talk to ... a friend, a girl pal, someone to listen to the way I feel. I have Dad, and Grandma Vert, and sometimes Kevin. I used to have Scott. I have pen pals, and I have you, Ledger. I suppose that's more than a lot of people have, and I should consider myself lucky. But why then am I so dried-up and hollow inside? I feel like the next big gust of wind that comes along will pick me up and blow me away ...

A *Small* Thought:

I can't stand when people - men - stare at me. It's really beginning to grate on my nerves. You'd think they'd never seen a large-chested girl before. I can't seem to get away from the stares. They don't feed my ego anymore, they just tear at me and invade my privacy. Why can't they keep their eyes to themselves?!?

(That would make good poem material, wouldn't it ... something about the eyes following me everywhere I go. Hmmm...)

Evening:

Have I ever compared my life to a ferris wheel? ...

... up and down,

up and down ...

Scott and I are together again, and things are right once more in Terri V.'s crazy life.

I don't think I need to say anything more, do I?

February 2, 1977
Wednesday

At school, sitting in the Hotdog Hilton with a Coke and a good book.

Today is Kim's birthday (Scott's younger sister). I just bought her a card in the bookstore. Flat broke or else I'd buy her a present - as it is, I had to scrounge a quarter from Scott to buy my Coke. I wish I had money.

February 3, 1977
Thursday

Starting to dislike school. I enjoy the campus, and I like to walk around and look at the people, but I'm growing impatient with my classes and with the regular grind. I'm cutting classes more and more often. Restlessness, I suppose. I'm not doing well at all.

Thursday
February 10, 1977

One week later. Finally finding time to scrawl a quick word. Sociology is just starting, so there's no time nor privacy to write. Mid-term final next week.

Later:

Just finished work. Oops! I didn't tell you, did I, Journal? I finally got a job last week. Yes, Terri V. is now, once again, part of the working world, EMPLOYED. I'm working as a secretary/receptionist in the campus dental clinic, 12-15 hours a week. This didn't last very long, as I recall ... I don't remember why, but I think I simply stopped showing up after awhile.

March 21, 1977

It's been over a month since I've written in this notebook, and in that month a great many things have happened to me ... too many to describe in a couple of pages or so, and some too painful to write about at all. I feel like an entirely different person ... smaller, somehow, and less important, and less a part of the rest of the world. Externally things may appear to be fine, but internally I couldn't be one bit more depressed and sad. That's why I believe that most of the things that have happened in the past month are just as well unrecorded and forgotten, if that's possible. I should just say "unrecorded" and leave it at that. They will NEVER be forgotten, not ever.



March 28, 1977
Monday night

Hi Journal, it's me again ... !

Today was the first day of Spring Quarter at college. After two weeks of long, lazy vacation, you'd better believe it was tough getting back into the swing of things today. I almost DIED when I had to drag myself out of bed at 7 a.m. !!!

Anyway. I have three new classes, two of which are with Scott, and all three seem like they'll be OK. I'm taking Research & Persuasive Writing with Mr. Stevens, Health with Mr. Harrison, and "Rock Music: A Metamorphosis" with one of the neatest teachers I've had in a long time, Mr. Fish. Mr. Fish came into the classroom five minutes late, wearing beat-up old jeans, an OSU sweatshirt and sneakers, long graying hair ... wordlessly put an album on the turntable and played music for twenty minutes before he even said a word to the class. When he did finally speak, he was dynamic and exciting. I really like him, and I hope the class is as good as it's started out to be.

Scott and I are picking at each other again, but I can't say I didn't expect it. The one year anniversary is over, the Dr. Baumann episode is taken care of (again), a lot of the momentum is gone. But I refuse to be down about things tonight!!! Tonight I feel strong and decisive. I paid off the last of my debts today, and I feel tremendously relieved. With one hurdle overcome, I can now begin to tackle the others. I don't exactly feel on top of my world, but at least I'm not down in the dumps anymore. Not today, at least. Please, God, let me hold onto this feeling for a while longer.

I'm going to watch the Academy Awards on TV, then clean my room, and then go to bed. Easy day tomorrow.

Supporting Actor - Jason Robards, "All The President's Men"
Supporting Actress - Beatrice Straight, "Network"
Actress - Faye Dunaway, "Network"
Actor - Peter Finch (posthumously), "Network"
Picture - "Rocky"
Song - "Evergreen" (from "A Star Is Born")

fuzzily distracted happyhappyhappy I wish that I could share this with you all

March 31, 1977
Before bed

Watching "Barney Miller" on TV, trying to decide which book to read next ("Happy Days" by Margaret Moore or "The Truth About Unicorns" by Bonnie Jones Reynolds). I've been reading like a person possessed lately - I find it a very pleasant and relaxing diversion. I've been reading ever since I can remember, even as a little girl. Can remember Saturday morning at Grandma's, sitting under the hairdryer and reading school library books. First grade. Can also remember family vacations when I would spend all my time sitting in the trailer or in the station wagon, reading the pile of books I'd brought along. Books have always been very special, private worlds to me. C.S. Lewis, Ruth M. Arthur, Nesbitt, Eager, Grimm, P.L. Travers ...

Feeling OK. Only one problem weighing heavily on my mind, which actually is a switch from the usual five or six I have to wrestle with. Don't feel like writing about it, so maybe it's not that important. Just something about my job at school.

What can I write about?

What is uppermost in my thoughts?

School - is fine, but already falling into the same old boring pattern ... Jody had her baby, a little girl that they named Kelli Ann St. John (the Kelli is for Jody's best friend, who I met at the shower - the Ann is for Ann St. John). Nobody here in Seattle has seen her yet, but Mom said that she's supposed to be tiny and delicate, with Jody's curly hair and Jerry's sweet baby face. I wonder if we'll ever be close ...

.... Wishing I had the money for some new clothes ... thinking about getting my hair cut ... it's getting middle-of-the-back long again, and although Scott swears it's "beautiful," I'm sick of it. No one has long hair anymore ...

Little things on my mind. G'nite.

Will I go out tonight, or won't I?

Wish I knew.

Seems like it always depends on Scott.

Dammit!

Tuesday
April 12, 1977

Afternoon. Not much to write about - saw this ledger sitting in the drawer, so thought I'd write something. Anything. My mind is just drifting along, each new thought absorbed by the next, nothing important to think about. Life is routine, routine, routine. Each day barely differs from the rest. In love with Scott - or am I? Same boring question. Of course I am. Ridiculous to even question it. Wish I could lose a few pounds, cut my hair, buy some new clothes. Tired of looking the same, being the same, talking the same ... reading the same books, watching the same TV shows. Need to find a new purpose in life, a new reason to get up in the morning. Nothing freaky or militant or spur of the moment. Maybe I should start writing or drawing again, or start dieting seriously. And exercising. Or reading the newspaper every day.



THE 1977 GRAMMY AWARDS

Country Single Recording - "Blue Eyes Crying In The Rain," Willie Nelson

Soul Recording - "Play That Funky Music," Wild Cherry
TIE
"You'll Never Find Another Love Like Mine," Lou Rawls

Pop Single - "Don't Go Breakin My Heart," Elton John & Kiki Dee

Favorite Country Duo or Group - Conway Twitty & Loretta Lynn

Favorite Soul Group - Earth, Wind & Fire

Favorite Pop Rock Group - Chicago

Country Album - "Rhinestone Cowboy," Glen Campbell

Pop Rock Album - "Eagles Greatest Hits" (other nominees: "Frampton Comes Alive," Peter Frampton, and "Songs In The Key Of Life," Stevie Wonder)

Female Pop/Rock Vocalist - Olivia Newton John (other nominees: Helen Reddy and Linda Ronstadt)

Best New Artist (presented by The Beach Boys) - Starland Vocal Band (Boston, Dr. Buzzard's Original Savannah Band, Bros. Johnson, Wild Cherry)

Jazz Vocal Performance - Ella Fitzgerald

Best Performance by R & B Group (presented by Peter Frampton) - Marilyn McCoo & Billy Davis Jr.

(Earth Wind & Fire, Wild Cherry, Spinners, K.C. & The Sunshine Band)

Inspirational Performance - Gary S. Paxton

Pop Male Vocal - Stevie Wonder (Boz Scaggs, George Benson, Gordon Lightfoot, Lou Rawls)

Female R & B Performance (presented by The Jackson 5) - Natalie Cole, "Sophisticated Lady"

Country Instrumental - Chet Atkins & Les Paul

Album of the Year - "Songs In the Key of Life" , Stevie Wonder



May 2, 1977
This is one of my favorite journal entries of all time

Late at night; it is raining outside and I am tranquil. I have just taken a long hot shower and am now sitting on my bed with the television companionably low, in a clean nightgown with my hair wrapped in a damp towel and a cigarette burning effortlessly in an ashtray on the bed beside me. Things that normally bother me are not bothering me now ... I have taken the telephone off the hook to avoid unwanted phone calls, and I am safe in my solitude.

Why can't it always be like this?

Maybe someday it will be ... maybe someday I'll have a place of my own where I can sit and think and read and listen to music and not worry about things; a place far away from Dad's incessant cynicism and dogs barking and dirty clothes scattered in the kitchen. Maybe, when I am alone in my own place, I'll be sitting on my bed listening to the rain falling outside my window, with a towel wrapped around my head and the clean pungent smell of soap and night cream and toothpaste everywhere, everywhere, and I'll be reading this page and remembering ...

I began this journal in January - nearly four months ago - and I've only filled a handful of pages with scattered thoughts and random entries. I must be losing my touch. There was a time, once, when my journal was a nearly constant companion, with pages filled every day. Now look ... nothing but unimportant, trivial little paragraphs that all say essentially the same thing: I am bored with my life, and I am scared. Things aren't going "on schedule." By this time in my life, 19-almost-20 (my GOD ... TWENTY!), I should be working in an office somewhere, driving around town in my own car, dating sixteen different men, turning down marriage proposals, scouting around for an apartment, putting sets of dishes and linens into a hope chest. I should be tall and svelte, with a head-turning figure, charming and poised and articulate; I should have stories printed in magazines, or be collecting my first rejection slips, and subscribe to "Vogue" and "Glamour," and wear brown nail polish and tailored pantsuits and short hair. Instead, I have no job and not car, am still dating one person, have yet to receive my first marriage proposal, live at home under the protective thumb of my father, collect records and birthday cards; I am not tall, svelte, charming, poised OR articulate; I bite my nails, wear jeans and T-shirts to school, and read "Modern Life" magazine. Some life, huh?

And I am scared. Of what, I'm not sure, but the fear is there. I feel it growing inside of me when I wake up in the middle of the night - this nameless, silent feeling deep within. Fear of growing up? Fear of NOT growing up? Fear of what I am - of all the terrible parts of me that I keep hidden? Whatever it is I fear, it is making me terribly uncomfortable with myself ...

... usually.

But not tonight. Tonight I am going to read a book until the early hours of the morning, and sip my diet cola, and pretend that everything is the way it should be ... and maybe tonight, it is. Maybe just for tonight, I am exactly where and who I should be.

TERRI IS ... Creative but lazy
Intelligent but unmotivated
Empathetic but too sensitive
Aware but emotionally immature

Owe letters to Robin, Dee Dee and Rudy but don't feel like writing!

About this time I indulged in a brief, red-hot affair with my boyfriend Scott's best friend, Jerry. After a few weeks Jerry and I broke things off: when Scott and I reconciled, I went back and edited this journal, deleting almost all references to my "indiscretion." 3/4 of the pages in this notebook are simply GONE.

June 12, 1977

God, Ledger ... so many things have happened in my life during this past month. I have no idea how I'm going to be able to tell you about it all without sounding hopelessly confusing.

Sunday afternoon. Woke up this morning without a hangover for a change of pace. I've been drinking like CRAZY lately ... averaging two fifths per week ... but I've abstained this weekend, more for the sake of my bank account than my liver. Booze is too damned expensive.

Sitting in my room, listening to the radio on the stereo. Dad is making potato salad in the kitchen, but I am so immersed in my own thots & worries that I just want to hide here in my room and avoid him. Trying to figure out how to begin telling you about all the changes. Trying to get the courage to call Jerry and beg to see him tonite. He and I really, desperately need to sit down together and have a long, heart-to-heart talk. Things have been so screwy between him and me these past few days. We went to a drive-in on Wednesday night ("The Sting" and "The Other Side of the Mountain") and had a lot of fun ... UNTIL he started pulling that same old shit about how it would be a good idea if we "wait awhile" before we go out again. What the hell is THAT supposed to mean? How long is "a while"? A couple days? A week? Two? A month? He forgot to be too explicit about that one, and it has me all up in the air.

Actually, this whole goddamned mess has me up in the air.

I didn't want it to happen this way. I mean, I know that Scott still loves me frantically, and that this whole thing with Jerry is tearing him apart. I can see what it's doing to him. But for some reason, I began to feel very strongly attracted to Jerry, and my feelings started taking over. We started going out behind Scott's back and somehow everything has snowballed



Scott's birthday. I was still in the doghouse with him over the whole sleeping-with-his-best-friend thing.
June 1977

(PAGES MISSING)

A craving?

My God, I've got to have a strawberry Pop-Tart and a giant glass of milk!!!! Or I'll die!!

Tuesday afternoon

Scott and I are going out to dinner in an hour. I wonder if I'll be able to keep my big mouth shut and resist the temptation to give him the bad news?

poem written on this momentous occasion

a pumpkin seed
of blue eyes
sleeping inside
tucked away in hiding
where there is no dissension
only dark and beating heart ...

The stars are leaning heavy-hearted
perhaps they know they must be parted

Monday night
July 18, 1977

Scott didn't call all day or evening AGAIN. Second time within a few days. So here I sit in my lonely little bedroom watching TV, eating a box of graham crackers and sipping a Pepsi, coming down off a high and trying to convince myself I want to stay up until 12:30 and watch David Niven in "Stairway to Heaven."

Half life.

Bored, bored, bored, bored, bored.

Frustrated.

Lonely.

Isolated.

Separated.

Thursday night
July 21, 1977

Sitting in limbo.

Where the hell is my diary?

Sunday night
September 18, 1977

Reading old journals always makes me feel like sitting down and writing a few pages. Seems as though it's always so much more interesting to read a couple of years later - even when it feels dull as dishwater at the time I'm writing it.

Wayne Larkin will probably be elected Seattle's next mayor. (In my father's handwriting: "WRONG! IT WAS CHARLES ROYER!" I must have left my journal sitting out where he could see it.) Raining outside. I got my curtains up yesterday, and then today I spent several hours thoroughly cleaning and straightening, so my room looks neat and cozy and comfortable. I took a shower and washed my hair (so I'll look OK for my trip to Sears tomorrow) ... am now sitting on my bed watching "The Best of All In The Family" and sipping a Pepsi Light on ice. Wish Dad would go to bed so I could smoke my joint.

Monday afternoon 12:22 p.m.
September 19, 1977

Bored. I did such a good job of housecleaning yesterday that there's practically nothing to do today. Went to Burien after my trip to Sears - got some new sweaters (it's about time!!!). God, I wish I could get that job at Sears!! I could really use the money, and I wouldn't mind putting school off for a quarter or two if it meant working fulltime and making enough money to buy a car. I've just gotta keep thinking positively about getting on & maybe the "good vibes" will really help.

Scott just called from the courthouse downtown - today is his first day of jury duty, and he says he's "bored." Said there's nothing to do but read magazines and play solitaire and smoke. Poor baby. If he wants to know what boredom REALLY is he should sit around this house for an afternoon.

(Laura Horton has been allowed to see Marlena/Samantha - "Days of Our Lives")

Boring afternoon.

Nothing to do, nothing to do, nothing to do. No energy, no motivation.

"All In The Family" re-run on TV ... Mike and Archie have just had their millionth fight ("Michael, please apologize to Daddy for giving God the raspberry!"). Wonder what Scott is doing down at the courthouse. Wonder if he's thinking about me at all. "S-W-E-E-T-H-E-A-R-T!" Carroll O'Conner, Jean Stapleton, Rob Reiner, Sally Struthers

FOOD:

Lasagna made with sour cream!

Tossed green salad

Thinking about smoking a joint, but I don't have much weed left and I'm not sure I should.



Saturday
September 24, 1977

My first Saturday afternoon since school started again ... it feels good. Feels like fall, crisp and clear and cold, birds chattering in the trees. I love fall - it's my favorite time of year. Scott and Jerry came over on bikes a little while ago and smoked some of my dope, so now I'm quite high and everything is moving in slow motion, including my brain and my hand holding the pen. Feels nice, but always makes me so damn sleepy after awhile. Strains of the space horns from "Little Neutrino" running through my head. Think I'll put on some music ... the "B" side of Alan Parsons Project. Seldom listen to this. Underneath the high, I'm a little angry with Scott for the offhand, casual way he's been treating me lately, sort of taking me for granted again. Unless we're "being romantic," he seems to just forget he loves me. No matter what I say or do, it's not good enough for him.

(A LOT OF PAGES MISSING)

... there were arguments and fighting and yelling. If there were, I don't remember them. My earliest conscious memory of my mother was when I was two or three, and she was putting me down for an afternoon nap. I was throwing a tantrum and Mama was angry with me. Another early memory of Mama was Christmas Eve when I was three. She was dressing me to go to Grandma and Grandpa's and we couldn't find one of my shoes. She was angry that time, too, and I ended up going to my grandparents' with only one shoe on. I have a picture of that night; Mama is holding me, and there I am with one bare foot.

My earliest memories of Daddy are a lot clearer. I think I worshipped him, so that must be why this is so. I can remember taking a shower with Daddy once, but the only impression that comes from that memory is that I was short and he was tall. I can also remember Daddy making pancakes shaped like teddy bears. I don't know where Mama was that morning, but I was very happy that Daddy was fixing my breakfast.

I have one memory that I'm not sure of, and lately I've begun to think it was probably a dream - a dream that was so nice and pleasant that I wanted it to be true and later began to believe it had actually happened. It was a snowy

(PAGES MISSING)

October 7, 1977
Friday

This is Dad's birthday. 42 or 43, I'm not sure. Maybe 44. Which, of course, I thought was positively "ancient." Anyway, Scott took me shopping after school to pick up a couple of birthday gifts, a sweatshirt and a mug-decorating kit.

October 8, 1977
Saturday afternoon

Should clean my room, but as usual I haven't an ounce of energy in my body .... not even enough to light a cigarette or make my bed. I feel drained and lazy and limp, like a Raggedy Ann doll propped on a rumpled bed. Oh well, big deal. What would it hurt to accomplish nothing today? Dad is home so I can't really do any housework anyway, and there's an abundance of good movies on TV this afternoon. Sure, my room looks like a hurricane struck in the night ... sure, my hair is dirty ... sure, I have homework ... but why not just sit back and let it all hang out for one day? I'm not going out with Scott tonite - Scott promised to help John move some equipment tonight - but I have some beer left over from last night and some Columbian, so I'll get high and relax.

Do you realize that Scott and I have been together for NINETEEN MONTHS??

Will I ever be Mrs. Terri S.?

I feel OK !! I'm alive ! I'm living in Seattle in 1977 and it feels great !

For Steve P.:

Hide in your shell ‘coz the world is out to bleed you for a ride.
What will you gain making your life a little longer?
Heaven or Hell, was the journey cold that gave you eyes of steel?
Shelter behind painting your mind and playing joker.
You're waiting for someone to understand you
But you've got demons in your closet
And you're screaming out to stop it
Saying life's begun to cheat you
Friends are out to beat you
Grab on to what you can scramble for ...
(Supertramp)

Kevin called and asked me out for tonite, but I really don't want to do anything but sit home and get high. I've only got enough weed for one small joint and maybe two bowls, so I guess I'll save it for later in the evening. Wish I had more. I'd like to get super-high tonite but with such a tiny stash I probably won't. Well, I guess it's better than having none at all, isn't it?

Saturday night. Songs written about it, people dragging thru the week looking forward to is, and what is it? Just another night of the week. No big deal, is it?

Sunday night
October 9, 1977

Did you know that October is my favorite month? No, wait - December is my favorite, because of Christmas and my birthday and all - but October is my second-favorite. I'm not sure why, exactly. Something about the way the air feels in October. Fall ... crisp, clean, cold, autumnal. Leaves turning and falling, pumpkins for sale, Hallowe'en candy in the stores. Sometimes I think that fall should come at the beginning of the year, because in spite of (or because of) things dying & winter coming, I feel more alive now than I EVER do in January. I always feel like something good is going to happen in the fall, and a lot of the time I'm right.

Scott and I went to the Swap-Meet today to add some 45's to our collections. Nice, pleasant day. Later in the afternoon we went to his house and got high on his Columbian. He said that last night he ate some mushrooms and had a very nice, visual-trip kind of high. Sounds good, doesn't it? I want to try them sometime, even though I have this aversion about eating raw mushrooms. I always enjoy visual highs.

Monday morning
October 10, 1977

I don't really feel like doing my Writing homework, and I don't feel like listening to Mrs. Harrington ramble on and on about things I haven't the faintest interest in. Damn. Why does this have to happen every quarter?? I begin the term feeling fresh and alive and ready to really buckle down and pay attention in class and study every night and amaze everyone by getting straight A's. But then after a week or so, something happens to diminish that excited interest in school. I can't put my finger on what starts it. I skip a class once or twice, stop reading the assignments, skip a quiz here and there ... the next thing I know I haven't been to class in two weeks and I can't go back because I'm too far behind. I end up with an F on my transcripts and I feel guiltier than all hell for blowing time & money that way.

I just CAN'T seem to get interested in "An Anthology of Russian Literature in the Soviet Period, From Gorki to Pasternak."

There is something I want to talk to you about, Journal, and that's the dreams I've been having lately ... dreams that I'm with other guys besides Scott. Mostly I keep dreaming that Jerry is trying to get back together with me. The plots are indistinct, but he's usually holding me or kissing me, and I feel very good and very happy. At other times it starts out to be Jerry but turns into someone else, like Phil. I dream about Phil a lot too. And sometimes I dream about someone different, someone who has never been anything special to me ... Pat W. last night, John M. the other night. In those dreams I'm always being held or kissed by this person, and I feel very good about it. I wake up happy. In these dreams I seem to have forgotten all about Scott because I never think of him at all until I wake up. All my attention is focused on this other person.

Now, in a way I can understand dreaming about Jerry. Our ill-fated romance last spring never reached any final conclusion ... it just sort of fell off abruptly, leaving a lot of unspoken words and hurt feelings between us. We never said, "Things aren't working out so maybe we should end this relationship." All of a sudden he just stopped calling, and I started seeing Scott again, and it was over, just like that. Like someone had taken a pair of scissors and cut the two of us apart. I probably dream about him in an effort to create a conclusion to a relationship that never really had one.   We hadn't started bandying about the term "closure" yet, but that's what I was looking for: closure.

And Phil - well, Phil was something else. Of all the failed relationships in my life (and there have been many, believe me), Phil is the one I regret the most. For the rest of my life I'll be sorry that I didn't hold onto Phil. I've written pages and pages about him, about all the things he has been to me and all the things he is, so I won't use a lot of ink rehashing it all now. He is special - that One Person who comes along in a lifetime - and I blew it. What more can I say?

Don't misunderstand. I love Scott, I do. We call each other "Sweetheart," more out of habit now I suppose than anything, but "Sweetheart" fits him. He is just that - my Sweetheart, my lover, my best friend. If the opportunity to get back together with Phil arose tomorrow, I wouldn't. But still every night I escape into the dangerous, forbidden world of my dreams, where my subconscious plays out fantasies I wouldn't dare consider while awake. I don't feel guilty about it ... just confused. Why don't I ever dream about Scott? What am I trying to tell myself?

What a rotten Journal this has been! Interesting things have happened - I had a brief "thing" with my boyfriend's best friend, for instance - but I didn't write anything about them because I was too paranoid that someone would read what I'd written and get "mad." How dumb. So as a result, my account of the past nine months has been sketchy, inaccurate and incredibly boring.

I'll have to change all that with my next journal.

You know what's funny in a way? Both of the guys I was writing to you about this morning, Jerry and Phil - I ran into both of them shortly after I'd written about them. Jerry, of course, is nothing unusual, since I ride to and from school with him every single day. But because of what I'd just written, the every-day encounter took on a different feeling for me. Scott and I both sit in the front seat of Jerry's car, with me in the middle, so I sit very close to him. All during the ride home I kept thinking about the way we used to feel about each other. Not with longing or regret, really, but sort of the way a scientist looks at a specimen ... with a scientific detachment. I just thought it was interesting that this person sitting next to me had, at one time, told me loved me, and now could barely think of anything to say to me. I know he must be really uncomfortable around me, especially when Scott is there. I'd love to read his mind and find out what he's really thinking ... if he remembers the same things I do.

And Phil - he walked right past me after class, while I was standing there talking to Scott and Pat. I watched him walking past and again I was thinking, "That person told me he loved me once." It's such an eerie feeling ... like it happened in a different lifetime or something.

So many guys have told me they loved me, it really makes me wonder if they even knew what they were saying at the time. Clarence was the first, and I was willing to be believe it because I wanted to be in love. I'd never had the experience before and I was eager to know what being in love felt like. I wouldn't have gotten involved sexually with him if I didn't believe he loved me. Who was it who said "The magic of our first love is the ignorance that it can ever end" - Disraeli?   Phil loved me. I know he did. I think maybe Steve did, in his selfish way. The others - Cray, Dane, Jerry, among others - maybe they did, but somehow I doubt it. If they did, then love is very transitory indeed.

BORED! Dad did all the housework - my room is clean - what can I do with all this free time I've accumulated? Homework? Yuck!

Later:

Scott dropped by unexpectedly. We went driving around in his van and smoke some weed with his new dashboard pipe and got a little high, but then we got into a minor/major argument here in my room and he got up and stormed out in a huff. I swear to God, he can make me so damned mad! Entirely self-engrossed, he refuses to look at ANYONE'S argument but his own.

I'm tired of being judged all the time - of feeling that I'm up on some platform competing for a blue ribbon. "You're getting to be the same way with weed that you were with alcohol," he said. "Why do you always have to have a crutch?" What a really sweet thing to say. I'm not kidding, I'm REALLY getting tired of it. He must have a parent-fixation: how else do you explain his innate need to be somebody's mother hen ... ?

Probably sounds rather incongruous after what I'd written about him being a "Sweetheart," but even Sweethearts have flaws. Big flaws. SCOTT S. IS A MOTHER HEN (sometimes)

I feel terrible. Mad. Cold. Tired. Depressed. Overwhelmed by the banality of some people.

Who does he think he is, really? Ordering me around, putting me down, condemning me. It should be very reassuring to know that someone is concerned about the way I conduct myself at all times - but somehow it ISN'T.

Tuesday morning
October 11, 1977

Scott called last night at a little past eight to tell me he loves me - which is about as close to an apology as I ever get, but that's OK. So I got over my anger, anyway. This morning Jerry got us all high on some Columbian, and since I took a diet pill this morning, I've got kind of a "buzzy" high going. I know it's dumb getting high before school - I have problems concentrating even when I'm straight, and when I'm stoned it's ten times worse. ("Muffin!") Don't really know why I do it. I can't remember my dreams last night, so I don't know if I dreamed about Jerry or Phil or anyone. I've read that everyone dreams every night, whether they remember it or not, so I may have.

There are so many stories I need to tell. Who will listen? Will you?

I have stories to tell and songs to sing

Some of my stories have beginnings and endings, isolated little pieces of my life that are separate from everything else. My Golden Summers of 71, 72, 75. The Bus Caravan to California. November 1974, the bleakest month of my life. Gary H., a friend who died at 17 in a shoot-out with the police. That moonlit night on mescaline with Alan W. Steve P., the great love of my life. Christmas Eve 1975. Camp Firwood with Tom and Kerry and George. The night the ambulance came and took my grandma away. The first date from hell. My first kiss. Becoming a Christian at the ocean. New Vision. My friendship with Karen. So many more, hundreds of memories ...

Evening

I bought a new journal today and I was super-tempted to scrap this one and start the new one; but I decided to be thorough and WAIT until this one is finished, for a change.

(But then the journal ends ANYWAY ... )

next        previous        home        archives        want to throw a rock?