I'm over it, I swear!

I have always considered middle school the most traumatic and overly dramatic period of my life so far. Nineteen was also a really sketchy year for me, but in terms of experiences that you are sure will be the death of you (at least socially) sixth through eighth grades were long and impossibly bumpy. Everything in my world shifted - my friends, my hobbies, my relationship with my family (namely my penchant for making my mom wish she could un-adopt me) - and I suppose at the time I could not have imagined a shittier sequence of events over the period of three years. Looking back, none of it was horrible, but certainly twelve-year-old me wanted to curl up quietly and die on several occasions.

I should never have opened this diary yesterday because I'm way too distracted by it right now. It looks like I only wrote in it when the worst possible shit was going down. That makes sense, though. When things were going well I was enjoying it, and when they turned sour...well, let's just say I read Go Ask Alice. I knew what to do.

December 27, Sunday (1993)
I rode Earl today. He was good. We did an equitation course. Then I got in a fight with my mom. I wouldn't put my Gameboy away so she hit me. I am gonna run away. I will probably not come back. She will probably ground me, but I don't care. She is such a bitch! She ruined my absolutely perfect day.

Ok, Whiny McWhinerpants. What I failed to tell my diary is that I most likely cussed my mom out after she told me to put away my Gameboy. I would have smacked me too for some of the lovely words I spewed at her. My mother gave me the moon and in return I gave her the brattiest version of myself that I could possibly muster, and I did so on a regular basis. I've only been slapped in the face twice - 1) the Gameboy incident (which I honestly do not remember) and 2) when my parents bought me (based on the recommendation of my riding instructor) a young horse that lived in California. The cost of shipping alone was equal to a quarter of the horse's price. After waiting for him for months and then riding him several times I learned that he was a spoiled, miserable, lazy biter, so I told my mom to send him back. Again, I think I would've slapped myself too. Getting that horse was a major production. In my own defense, horses and their primary riders must click, and we most certainly did not. I mean, come on. Have you ever been bitten by a horse? No? Then step! Also, I was not equipped to teach that horse how to behave properly, which quite honestly would have involved a lot of whipping, snarling, and generally making the horse hate me. It's called "breaking a horse" for a reason, and I wanted no part of it.

I really need to shut up about the horses now. Sorry, it's in the fibre of my being.

Oh, and did you like how I said I'd run away and not come back and then I'd probably get grounded? Hard to get grounded if you actually stay gone, asshat! I am feeling highly disappointed in my illogical young self right now.

OMG! The next entry very briefly recounts THE WORST moment of my life (by age 12, that is).
Why was I so damned brief about all this stuff? Of all the times to skimp on words, which as you know is just not my style!

January 11, Monday (1993)
Today the 3 worst things happened. First, after an awesome weekend with Gwane, she left. We were really bummed. Then I had about a gallon of menstrual blood come out. It was all over my jeans, so I went home. Then I called the Homework Hotline and got the wrong number. So this guy called back and left a message that he was going to find me and hurt me. What a shitty Monday!TGIO!

TGIO must mean Thank God It's Over, which as far as I know was the first and last time I've ever used that acronym. Weird. I had forgotten about that Hotline thing - that was actually kind of scary. After the guy called and said that someone else in his house, a woman, called and left a bunch of messages accusing me of "playing on their phone." I was freaked the fuck out! And the blood...well...I can't even tell you what it feels like to be sitting in 7th grade History class and feel like your insides just burst and were flowing out of your vagina, and even if you were wearing a pad, which you weren't, it would've been like trying to soak up a puddle with a paper towel. Maybe it wasn't a gallon, but I wouldn't be surprised if it was a pint, which - JUST AS BAD. I remember wrapping a jacket around my waist and walking to gym class so I could tell my friend what was going on, because I knew she could tell the nurse what happened and the words would never be able to come out of my mouth. I actually had to beg the gym teacher to let my friend go to the nurse's with me. What a wench.

I'M DONE (for) NOW.