Back to the C activity, but my name's not Elizabeth.
Thursday, 12/02/04 - 10:16 pm.

This afternoon, after a minute of deep thought, while going through the Cronbach reliability test and holding back tears, I decided I could start cutting again. Everybody can have a reason to cut, but what's important is the reason not to cut. And by the way things are going, Joseph has stopped being that reason.

I still have many reasons not to cut. But even though I understand his demands, I think I did it just out of spite, "if you can have a hangover every morning, I can slice my arms every night. And don't show me your stupid scars that appeared after mine; I know you'll want to do the same, multiplied by two, to make me feel guilty for not considering you a reason to avoid cutting".

I wrote and wrote in the journal my friends Victor and Angie gave me last year, before I got on the plane and before they broke up. It was an entry that goes beyond the typical five paragraphs. I write, draw, cry and bleed on those pages everytime I'm sad, so most entries are tear or blood stained, like the one that belongs to this date.

I can't stand the pressure of these days, and last night, when Joseph said all those things, I wanted to cry and beg him not to do this to me, to beg him to please understand I was never educated to learn these things by myself, to please understand that since that day at the juice parlor, I'm scared of walking into his bedroom. But afraid of sounding like I was excusing myself, I only nodded and said "you're right", while thinking to myself "I haven't done my part".

I called him today, and I asked him what he'd prefer: if we went to the mall together (there aren't many places to go around here), or if I visited him at his house, with Cel. He chose the latter. I know he wants me to go by myself, but that's practically impossible for the time being.

Now I have to contact Cel. Her home phone number "does not exist" anymore, she doesn't answer her cell phone and I think she never gets my e-mails. Oh, joy.

He says very little over the phone, and he cut the conversation, saying somebody wanted to use the phone (which was true, I know). We start talking kind of nicely, but as the conversation goes on, he gets more and more apathetic, and I want to tell him some things, but I'm afraid of breaking down, afraid of sounding like I want to be the victim. It's just that an ultimatum was the last thing I needed, and he's giving it to me on a plastic dish.

This critic talked about your book, he said. He went to the place where my book will be introduced to the public next thursday.

I like my book, but I wanted to avoid all those responsabilities my dad, and apparently, all of the writers in the world insist I have. I don't want to go onstage and read the story of the unemployed man who was called communist and was eaten by a giant octopus. I don't want to answer their questions. What inspired me? John Lennon. The end. Go home...But if I don't do this, they'll find all means to make me feel guilty permanently.

I'm sick of this endless semester. I still have three finals and an essay, and then I have to take a plane, and I panic at the single idea of flying. I used to like being with my family, I love them, but now I believe we're too many, and group activities have been always less than a thrill for me. When I go to Houston, I like going on my own.

I only cut once. It bled a lot, and I cleaned the wound and I cleaned the mess, and I thought that when I can do things for myself (yes, Joseph) I'll donate blood instead of wasting it over pressure and sadness.

My mom opened the door when I was crying and writing on my journal. I hated that, she opened the door like it isn't closed for a reason. My parents aren't nosy, really. I was scared she saw me crying, but she didn't. She only stuck her head in, to let me know she'd finished using the computer.

I walked out of my bedroom, inhaling Vic. With a pathetic post-weeping state, I said to my mom that I was catching a flu, before she even noticed I was there, so she wouldn't have any doubts about why I'm looking so sick. If tomorrow I wake up with a stuffed nose, I'm through, and I'll complain to myself, "self, it had to happen, right around the time I need to be strong".

I hadn't felt that pain on the wrist in a long time. I can't say I missed it, it reminds me of senior high and D., and randomly, of the day I banged my head against a tree at school, once (of the many times) he'd ignored me.

I've never had any real trauma that could excuse my dramatic behavior these past years, mr. Freud, I'm just weak. And I just needed some comfort today. I can't seem to find it anywhere, anymore.

You know who I just talked to? Joe. He came online, and he thought my name was Elizabeth (I just realized that's the name on my profile...I put it because I like that name a lot). He sounds so strange, and I made a joke about an airplane and he thought I was mocking him. He sounded more like a child, it was so strange.

- Him: my mom thought you were a boy. So she freaked out when she saw the heart (ok, I made a heart because he said something about The Beatles...but his mom sees his conversations?).
- Me: I put the heart because of The Beatles. They make my aorta swell.
- Him: I know. But my mom thinks I'm homosexual.

Ok...

So do Joseph's parents. It must be one of those New World diseases.

That's a strange mom, I said. So that's where you come from, I continued, and then I quickly said it was another joke, although strange people rock the world. But he went offline (before the boy comment he'd said he had to study) and he either didn't see that message or got really mad.

Seriously, his oddness freaked me out.

But talking to him made me feel a little better, anyway. I cried today, and I had a small argument with my dad about the promotion of the book, and thought all those things about Joseph...I really don't feel like doing anything.

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