Firehouse Productions and tangled feet present:
I CONFESS
A one on one performance piece inside a confessional booth
“recaptures the heart of theatre” Three Weeks****
“This is a smart, provocative and moving gem of a show, delivered with a lightness of touch and calm assurance which isn’t just rare, it’s almost unheard of…a little slice of utter, simple brilliance which will stay with you long after the lights go down…
allthefestivals.com *****
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TELL US YOUR STORIES
Your stories about tough choices you have made will make up half of the stories we perform. So we need you. Just post a comment below here about something from your life you’d like to confess. It can be really weighty, or something thats just niggled at you for a while. Whatever it is, if you send it in, and a performer will tell this story to an audience member, along with one of his or her own true stories.
Post your comment here, or contact us e.confessional@gmail.com to get more involved.
If you wish to respond anonymously, type “general” in required name field, and “general@yahoo.com” in required mail field.
Upcoming Performance Dates
20th December at HighTide Festival
20th of March at Tate Britain
how do you submit a story for confession?
Hi there. To submit your stories, just post them as comments here on the blog, or you can send them into the email address: e.confessional@gmail.com if you prefer.
Thanks!
I went to a primary school that was run by the Archetypal headmaster and a series of dickensian strict teachers within an Old stone and very small victorian school building with high window sills. I was 8 and Mr Packwood our class teacher had bought in a highly expensive and precious(or so he told us) spectrum to show us the rainbow through it. At the end of the class he put the spectrum high up on the window sill so the rainbow would reflect on the ceiling. We were told under NO CIRCUMSTANCE were we to touch the spectrum. The next day was sports day and we all bought in our mascots and we were told to put them away from our desks. Some mascots had been put on the window sill so I pushed Big Ted, my old and trusted bear, up there with the others. however Being the littlest, I had to go up onto tip toes and lost my balance and CLUNK! The sound of the spectrum fell tight behind the radiator and there was no way it could come out, my guts were garters, and I looked round to se if anyone heard or seen and I tip toed back to the desk and prayed somehow the spectrum would be dislodged. It wasn’t and the next day one by one we were called into class and grilled individually on the disapperance of the spectrum. I was so scared I was going to get a flogging I didn’t want to say anything. Daniel Williams the most disruptive boy in the class took the brunt of Mr Packwoods roth because he’d been seen snooping around the window sill and the spectrum after school the day before and then Mr Packwood out of frustration gave up his interrogation and didn’t ever get round to me. 3 weeks later I still felt awful and Mr Packwood came into the class and said the spectrum had been found by the caretaker behind the radiator. I was relieved but I never confessed it was me who had dropped it there. Today, 22 years on, Big Ted and I are sat on my bed and I’d like to apologise on our behalf for being a coward and allowing Daniel to take Mr Packwood’s anger.
i am seeing this 30 year old nerd, who prior to meeting me had never lost his virginity. i started seeing him as a result of opsing for him… as he is an artist. it felt strange how this cowardly man managed to tame the fierce lion. i almost felt like i was lolita. i mean i’m not innocent… but i don’t particuarly enjoy men thinking that i am dolly which they can experiment with. it’s weird because when i look back at it, he may have performed some form of rape?
strangely i actually really want to be apart of this persons life….. not because i fancy him… i really don’t but because i feel that my life is worthless. the fact that i prositute myself to a social invalid purely for a moment of love and attention is sick? well isn’t it? every time i sleep with him i cry, i can’t help it. it sometimes makes him feel really bad…… because he doesn’t have what i want.i don’t even know what i want. They say this behaviour is addement in kids who have never grown up with their dad. do ou think thats true?
I need to take some our for me to realize what i have to offer this world and what is great about me. i was working in a kids nursery today……. it pains my heart that these young kids can see me for who i truthful am. is almost as if children have a sixth sense to the sadness in someone life behind the smile and the laughter. they sense this and try to make ou realize that you are just like them…. love care and hugs is what keeps them happy. i am telling you this, in the hope that you can understand what i unable to say in reality. i don’t want any help, just time and space. i started thinking of ways to escape this fakeness.
i’m getting quite disillusional now.
I’d like to confess to something very silly that I still feel guilty about. It wasn’t so much a decision as total thoughtlessness. I was on a hiking holiday in a poor country, and as part of it was staying in some local villagers’ houses. They were being paid, though not much, and their hospitality was overwhelming. They provided beautiful meals for us, getting up at dawn to bake fresh bread. In short, the kind of people you would want to reward, not cause disgusting problems for.
They had an outside shower, and when I was in there one day, after a particularly long hike, I realised I needed a wee. I didn’t want to get dressed again and traipse to the outside loo, so I did it when I was in the shower. It’s not something I ususally do, only very occasionally, but I didn’t give it a second thought. As soon as I had done it I realised I had made a mistake. The shower stank like a farm, and the concrete floor had absorbed all the smell. It still smelt as bad the next day when we left.
I would like to apologise to the kind villagers whose language I didn’t share, and say I am so sorry for making your shower smell, and because you probably had to scrub it clean, and for not owning up to it out of embarrassment. Not all Westerners are as thoughtless as I am.
Stopping eating is a slightly crazy notion reserved for those that can’t get food. The cracked dry mouths of children in a desert somewhere in Africa or the bastion of the rich and famous who starve to be thin, to look good on the cover of a magazine or in a film or something. It’s not for us. It’s not meant for us, it’s self harm and cruelty and agony, and tightened stomachs that shrink to the size of a pea. It’s desire and motivation and manipulation. It’s the need to expel, to push out all those toxins and waste products. Your body doesn’t need them. It’s the moment you stare longingly at the fridge and then close the door again, because nothing, nothing inside of it is what you want.
You sit, curling your arms round your body as it shrinks willing the layers of fat to drop off. But you’re becoming a carcass, wasted of thought and action. Movement is painful and stretching a muscle finds cramps and aches that belong to the old. But you do, to make yourself feel alive. And you walk the streets looking at people in an off balanced way, through the doors of the cafes and the only thing that would induce you go in is coffee, not cakes. The aroma of coffee is strong and helps you to fight back the hunger pain, like cigarettes or diet pills it becomes your craving.
In the supermarket with your mother, you walk around aimlessly picking up packets and checking the sugar/salt contents before replacing them on the shelf. What do you want for tea tonight? And you shrug because you can’t think of a simple thing that will induce you eat.
But the craving is still there, trying not to be dormant and your body is fighting your mind. Food, food, food. But you are determined, resolute. ‘Til one day, it becomes too much to take and your body begins to retch, even though the stomach is empty and water comes up and bile and it floods in a fizzy string from your mouth. Then you eat. That is the moment you swing open the fridge and you don’t even look inside, you just grab what you want by the handful, the armful. You don’t pause as you eat. Standing there gluttonous and full of need. You pile it all down your throat, crisps with chocolate, butter and salad cream, bread smeared with cream and tomato puree and it’s not vile. It’s delicious, it’s heaven. Your body of course does not agree, because minutes later when the floor is covered with crumbs and droplets of sauce, the retching starts again. And you have no control over it. You have to run, quick fast to the toilet. And you kneel there hugging the coldness as it all comes out in heaves and sagging breaths. Til you can’t breathe properly because your nose is bunged up with food and saliva.
What do you want for dinner? And the fridge is opened and she stares confused at the random emptiness of what was full only an hour ago. Just a snack you say. An apple will do me. But she’s not buying it. You’re down the doctor’s and he’s staring at you. You notice the blot of tomato ketchup on your shirt and you can’t take your eyes off it, because it’s a guilt mark. A stain. You wonder if your stomach looks the same. What it contains. But it’s just bile and water and then you’re sick again, all over his smart brown lace up leather shoes. And there’s a skull in the reflection of them. You have flu. Then back to bed. Where you lay quite happily because it’s easy to throw soup out the window and feed bread to the birds. And you’re listening to the gurgle of your aching stomach like a pregnant woman waiting for a baby to kick.
Stopping eating is a slightly crazy notion reserved for those that can’t get food. The cracked dry mouths of children in a desert somewhere in Africa or the bastion of the rich and famous who starve to be thin, to look good on the cover of a magazine or in a film or something. It’s not for us. It’s not meant for us, it’s self harm and cruelty and agony, and tightened stomachs that shrink to the size of a pea. It’s desire and motivation and manipulation. It’s the need to expel, to push out all those toxins and waste products. Your body doesn’t need them. It’s the moment you stare longingly at the fridge and then close the door again, because nothing, nothing inside of it is what you want.
You sit, curling your arms round your body as it shrinks willing the layers of fat to drop off. But you’re becoming a carcass, wasted of thought and action. Movement is painful and stretching a muscle finds cramps and aches that belong to the old. But you do, to make yourself feel alive. And you walk the streets looking at people in an off balanced way, through the doors of the cafes and the only thing that would induce you go in is coffee, not cakes. The aroma of coffee is strong and helps you to fight back the hunger pain, like cigarettes or diet pills it becomes your craving.
In the supermarket with your mother, you walk around aimlessly picking up packets and checking the sugar/salt contents before replacing them on the shelf. What do you want for tea tonight? And you shrug because you can’t think of a simple thing that will induce you eat.
But the craving is still there, trying not to be dormant and your body is fighting your mind. Food, food, food. But you are determined, resolute. ‘Til one day, it becomes too much to take and your body begins to retch, even though the stomach is empty and water comes up and bile and it floods in a fizzy string from your mouth. Then you eat. That is the moment you swing open the fridge and you don’t even look inside, you just grab what you want by the handful, the armful. You don’t pause as you eat. Standing there gluttonous and full of need. You pile it all down your throat, crisps with chocolate, butter and salad cream, bread smeared with cream and tomato puree and it’s not vile. It’s delicious, it’s heaven. Your body of course does not agree, because minutes later when the floor is covered with crumbs and droplets of sauce, the retching starts again. And you have no control over it. You have to run, quick fast to the toilet. And you kneel there hugging the coldness as it all comes out in heaves and sagging breaths. Til you can’t breathe properly because your nose is bunged up with food and saliva.
What do you want for dinner? And the fridge is opened and she stares confused at the random emptiness of what was full only an hour ago. Just a snack you say. An apple will do me. But she’s not buying it. You’re down the doctor’s and he’s staring at you. You notice the blot of tomato ketchup on your shirt and you can’t take your eyes off it, because it’s a guilt mark. A stain. You wonder if your stomach looks the same. What it contains. But it’s just food and water and then you’re sick again, all over his smart brown lace up leather shoes. And there’s a skull in the reflection of them. You have flu. Then back to bed. Where you lay quite happily because it’s easy to throw soup out the window and feed bread to the birds. And you’re listening to the gurgle of your aching stomach like a pregnant woman waiting for a baby to kick.
When I was 5 years old, I killed my dog, Minutchki. I wasn’t trying to, but unless I just dreamt this, I think I did it. He was a little dog and lived on a leash in the back yard, because Mama was afraid of all animals and wouldn’t have one in hte house. Kind of a terrier, maybe? I don’t really remember. it’s almost lost in hte mists of things I’ve heard about myself and htings I have remembered before and tried to think about and stories I’ve told about myself, but the thing I remember was I was investigating centrifugal force. he was probably pulling on the leash and running in a circle around me, I don’t know how it started but there was this feeling of swinging with htihs fascinating weight at the end of a line, and spinning in the middle of a circle until it got out of control and I lost hold and he went flying. like the Greek track event tossing the hammer. I didn’t realize it was HIM at the end of the leash till I went to find him. i remember year as later seeing boys at the swimming pool take a frog and throw him up in the air and let him land on the concrete and they were trying to see how high they could throw him and how long he’d live, and it made me sick and I wanted to stop them though by the first go the frog was already beyond hope of recovery. By then I could to feel that people shouldn’t do such things (maybe OTHER PEOPLE; in fact, I think I’d have protested that when I was 5, but who knows?). Maybe this is what they mean about men being autism-prone –
I also wrung a chicken’s neck but I was ten then, and there were a dozen chickens to kill and pluck and i was with the old lady who took care of me and they were her chickens, and she was doing the job and I wanted to help; but the chicken didn’t like it and fought me and i botched it and Josephine had to finish her off, and she ran around the yard like a chicken with her head chopped off, and I think that was the beginning of my becoming a conscientious objector. Didn’t make me a vegan, but I AM sorry, especially for Minutchki.
Erm… me and the mrs, Jane, we’ve always liked a drink right. Nothing… not like in an alky way or anything, but socially, you know. I always think people who don’t drink are a bit… awkward in social situations, you know. You always have the best laugh after everyone’s had a few don’t you.
Anyway, a few weeks ago, two weeks and three days actually, erm… we found out that Jane was pregnant which was, brilliant news, you know. But with Jane being thirty eight we didn’t want to take any chances so we decided- well not just because of her age, it’s just the right thing to do- but we decided that from that day Jane wouldn’t have another drink until after the baby was born. Thing is I think Jane was a bit daunted by it- not the baby, the not drinking for nine months- so I said I’d stop as well. Moral support and all that. And it’s something to focus on together. Might even… It’s not been the best… recently, you know. I’m a bit… and I think she’s sensed that and she probably thought this would give us a new spark, with the baby and the… ‘in it together’ thing.
Anyway, everything was fine for the first few days, I think we both missed it, but we stayed away from anything… tempting. The week nights aren’t that hard anyway… really. But you can’t live like hermits for nine months can you. So…
That Saturday… we went to a party… well it was a disaster. I don’t think I’d ever seen Jane so… like she was autistic or something. She wouldn’t join in conversations and the one joke she did crack was… well it was a tumbleweed. The thing is, I wasn’t much better. Just listened and nodded a lot and lost the sense of where my arms were. You ever get that? Where you have to actually look down to check they’re still by your sides. Anyway, that was the highlight of the night. Finding out they were still there.
The next weekend we ended up going to this fancy dress party. I didn’t want to go and neither did Jane, but we made the effort, put the last party down as just a blip. Well, it was the same thing. Except this time I’m stood there dressed as a banana and I can’t even see my arms let alone feel them. And Jane’s there next to me dressed as an orange in this massive round orange suit and the pair of us hadn’t spoken to anyone for probably twenty minutes and I can see she’s getting upset again and all I can think to do is… I say I’m going to the toilet and I make my way through the crowd and I head straight for the drinks table. A swipe this little bottle of vodka and lock myself in the loo. Like I’m fifteen again. It’s pathetic. And I know what you’re thinking, I must have a serous problem if I can’t go a week without… I mean we both must, but I’m not bothered about that as I’m standing in front of the mirror looking at myself in all my yellow glory. I just thought, if I neck this then I’ll loosen up and Jane doesn’t have to know, but I’ll be able to chat again and I’m not gonna feel like a social retard and I’ll be able to bring Jane in on conversations, you know. I’ll be able to make her feel a bit better if I have a drink. It’s for both of us! And it’s a betrayal I know, but in the grand scheme of things it’s not like having an affair is it. So I’m taking the cap off, but the problem is I’m thinking about last weekend, on the way home, and I’m remembering Jane and the bucket load of tears and… see we’re really outgoing people normally, and it might be the hormones or something, but it really got to her and she said… she said that the only thing that got her through the night was the fact that I was there with her. Doing the same thing. Feeling the same thing. Going through the same thing. And without that she doesn’t know how she’ll get through these nine months. I think she loved me more that night than she’s ever done…
So I’m standing there looking at this bottle like some alky and there’s a knock at the door, like it’s Eastenders or something, caught in the act. And it’s Jane wanting to know if I‘m alright. Presumably thinking I’m taking the whole thing even harder than she is and I… I just… despite the fact that she obsessively hates lies and deceit- I mean if I lie about a sneaky fart, I get the cold shoulder for an hour. Despite all that…! …I necked it. All of it. Three big nasty gulps. Fast as I could. Hid the bottle inside my costume and… and flushed the toilet. Like some dirty, lying, sly, bastard.
When I was 7 years old, I made my First Confession. It was called in the Catholic tradition, the sacrament of Penance. The idea as I got it was that you had to say your sins to the priest, he would give you a “penance” of saying a number of prayers, you had to say the Act of Contrition, and you were then free to emerge the Confessional, remembering of course to say your penance, or your sins would not be forgiven after all.
The only problem was, I was kinda stumped when it can to figuring out what were my sins. Being the studious, seeking-to-please child that I was, I knew all about sins….original sin, venial sin, mortal sin, even near occasions of sin. I knew all about the Examination of Conscience, which actually I find a personally helpful process to this day.. But back to the sinning part. I knew I was absolved of original sin cause I was baptized, I didn’t dare even think about mortal sins, so I was left with bandying about the possibility of having committed venial sins. Soon I concocted the following gems: “I told lies 4 times”, and “I got angry 3 times”. Only problem was, I was telling a lie by confessing to telling lies. I also didn’t tend to get angry, at least in the sense that my 7 year old mind could discern as the level of a venial sin. – I was in a quandary, which I soon resolved by the moral understanding that it was a greater good to make the adults around me happy than it was to avoid committing a sin. Thus began my career of confessional lying.
I went around with the standard 4xlying and 3xangry for quite a while – it served my purposes well. Then one day I overheard another child’s confession. Another level of deviant confessional behavior began to suggest itself as I listened intently: “I got in a fight with my brother and hit him hard. I stole money out of my mother’s purse. And the awesome, “I missed mass on Sunday”!
From that day forward, my confessions included multiple times of missing mass, hitting people, stealing from a wide variety of sources. I began to embellish even more as I got a little older and could imagine the actual doing of certain things….i said curse words to my mom, I pushed sr. joel to the ground, I stole from purses of people in church. My beloved Fr. Barnett listened to all this stuff for months and months, til I eventually got tired of the game. I was always puzzled as a child by one thing however: no matter what I said to Father, he always gave me the same penance – One Our Father, One Hail Mary. I had heard the big boys and girls with stories of some boys who had been given entire rosaries to say! I thought that was really cool, and could never figure out, no matter what lies I told father, I never rated a rosary in his eyes.
I was 26 years old, married, in grad school and working a full time job. My job was to locate elderly people at risk of institutionalization, and see if they were interested in participating in activities at local community centers, as an alternative to being shunted off to a nursing home, or quite frankly, just dying alone in their homes, unattended to and uncared for. It was really a rather awesome job. I met the most incredible old people. I was young and foolish in the sense that once I had received a call saying that mr or mrs. So-and-so was alone and in need of care, I would become armed with that purpose, venturing out into some of the most amazing and dangerous places in the city of new Orleans. When I started to feel scared, I mentally armed myself with the same throw-myself-into-the fray stance that I called on when I was a child and had to summon the courage to jump in the middle of a physical altercation between my father and mother. In each instance, somebody had to do it, right? I fell in love, over and over again, with those old people. Their personalities were somehow in greater relief than most other adults I knew. They seemed to have sluffed off some of the protective, nicefying veils that young and middle aged adults wrap themselves in. There were just there: Genius, Defiant, Pure, Accusatory, Passionate, Vacant, Artiste, Paranoid I fell in love with most of them, but there was one I loved most of all; his name was Gentle, or as the rest of the world knew him, Mr. Carlin. He cared very lovingly for his wife Louise, who had alzeimers. Two grown daughters lived in California. professional photographs of these truly beautiful women were in every room of that small little home near the Quarter. They did not come to visit often. Ms. Louise had lost her speech and appeared to have lost most of her cognition. She sat around with a beautific smile, literally all day long. All self care was turned over to her husband, the only thing I remember ms. Louise doing for herself was walking as he guided her and swallowing the food he fed to her.
Mr. Carlin had been a Navy cook before his retirement, and he loved nothing more than to have my husband and I over for a visit, while he concocted wonderful pastries, and told stories upon stories. Even his stories were in high relief: Profound. Funny. Philosophical. Wondering. We enjoyed his friendship so, especially me, and we’d find a way to stop by his house every couple of weeks or so. And he began to in a way I think, rely on those visits. Its like maybe during the week he would think thoughts, and then would store them until his young friends would visit him. He knew we appreciated his stories and thoughts and questions. We shared ours with him. It was a deeply mutual relationship. And then, after a while, it began to be harder and harder to leave Mr. Carlin’s house when we went for a visit. At first, being the proper kind of southern girl, I couldn’t just say, oh, mr. carlin, we have to go home now. That would be rude. We had to let him finish his story. Then, finally I did learn to say, oh, mr. carlin, that’s a great story, but we have to go now. And he would follow us, oceans of words tumbling onto the kitchen floor, flowing out the living room onto the front porch, licking our heels as we walked down the street back to our house.
It was hard. I loved him. I didn’t pity him. He was great. His goodness was great. His stories were great. His way of being, of walking in this old world was, just, great. The big problem was, I just didn’t know how to leave. It sounds so simple now, like an ann landers letter, where ann’s surrogates would glibly tell me what to do, and I would do it. I wish. The answer is so sadly simple. But, that didn’t happen. Instead, I gradually stopped going to his house. I would say week after week, oh dave, we’ve got to go see mr. carlin, and I would think of all the work I had to do, and somehow, going to see mr. carlin just became a perpetual manana thing. After a while, we just never went back.
It is the thing that I feel the most ashamed of in my life. Abandoning a man I loved.
When I was a kid, living in northeastern, PA, I’d always find myself getting in trouble with my local neighborhood friends. Now we weren’t breaking & entering or stealing cars; just stupid kids stuff. Anyway I lived right near a Lake and there was a long winding road that lead from the street my house was on, down, down to the docks. As the road passed under other roads, bridges were formed overhead.
We had a game we used to play, ‘stone dropping,’ where we’d see whose stone would drop the fastest to the road below; big round stones did the best for some reason. One day my friend Matt and I, were playing, he was winning 3-2. We had just released our stones when a yelloe, city work truc k came rolling into vire and ‘BLANG’ our stones hit the roof of his truck. We kept looking down and began to get nervous when he stopped the car and got out. Looking straight up, he shouted at us and told us to stay put. We were scared.
We both took off, but being small and not terribly bright decided to hide behind the skinniest trees we could find. The dirty, ruty, yelloe, city truck pulled out and the man yelled at both of us to come by the street, where he yelled and told us how dangerous we were and how if we did it again he’d call the police and tell our parents. We were both so scared that we ran home and never played ‘stone dropping’ again.
Every once in a while, my mother jokes about killing my father. ‘I am just going to kill your father.’ ‘I am about ready to strangle your father.’ ‘If you come home and your father is dead, you’ll know why.’ My mother is very casual with comments like these. She used to threaten to kill me all the time when I was growing up; I knew that when she went into detail about how she was going to kill me, she was really put-out. I always assumed Mom is being dramatic.
Once I hit about nine or ten, I became closer to my mother than my father. I think Dad enjoyed having a little girl to spoil, but the problem is that we’re so similar in personality (mostly our faults, anyway), as I grew into the adolescent stage, our relationship became strained. We fought more. We pushed each other’s buttons. He would get frustrated and become silent, making passive-aggressive comments that would set me off, and then I would get irritated and lose my temper. I would stomp out of the room and immediately, within earshot of me, Dad would complain to Mom about me. Then I would shout, I hear you, Dad! and Dad would revert back to brittle silence and Mom would get high-handed, playing moralistic referee, and say, now you two need to cut it out. Then I would resent my father not only for being passive-aggressively baiting me, but also for coming between my mother and I. This happened fairly often until I went away to school.
Don’t get me wrong, I love my father. I could not ask for more wonderful, indulgent parents. I do think our relationship has improved with distance. When I went to university (a 750-mile drive or two hour plane ride away), we both mellowed. Not having to deal with each other every day, each having our individual freedoms, both of us getting more alone-time with Mom, me not being a selfish, petulant teenager anymore…all of this was helpful. We argued less, but were still aware of the painful similarities in our behavior and also the differences in our personalities that sparked conflict. Summers at home would still be trying, even short visits now can be tricky if I’m not careful with what I say.
Last winter was an especially trying visit home. Dad was going through a stressful period at the office, expecting retirement to be imminent but unwelcome. He doesn’t want to retire but knows he is the oldest lawyer in the firm and will have to step down eventually. He was touchy and I was sick of hearing about his problems. One night, it was very dark out and Dad had gotten out of the car to do something–now I can’t remember what. Mom and I were parking the car. Mom, who had also become tired of Dad’s depressive whining, said with a chuckle, ‘We could back over him and say it was an accident. That we didn’t see him in the dark. You know he’s worth a lot more before he retires.’ I raised an eyebrow. She continued, ‘His life insurance goes way down after retirement…’ Then she named a couple impressive figures, comparing the pre-retirement payoff to the post-retirement payoff. One was significantly higher than the other. ‘So Mom, you’re saying we could kill Dad with the car, say it was an accident, get a lot of money for him and…not get caught?’ Mom smiled. We sat for a minute, watching Dad out the back window, thinking about it. Mom and I could live comfortably. She could even move in with me if she wanted and we could buy a nice house somewhere. We wouldn’t have to put up with Dad being difficult ever again. I had an image of the two of us sitting in a lavish penthouse overlooking Central Park, drinking martinis and cackling wildly. More importantly, I would have Mom to myself forever. We had always gotten along better anyway. It might be fun. ‘Do it! Do it!’ I yelled with gusto. Mom considered and sighed. ‘I can’t…he’s your father…’
Every once in a while, my mother jokes about killing my father. ‘I am just going to kill your father.’ ‘I am about ready to strangle your father.’ ‘If you come home and your father is dead, you’ll know why.’ My mother is very casual with comments like these. She used to threaten to kill me all the time when I was growing up; I knew that when she went into detail about how she was going to kill me, she was really put-out. I always assumed Mom is being dramatic.
Once I hit about nine or ten, I became closer to my mother than my father. I think Dad enjoyed having a little girl to spoil, but the problem is that we’re so similar in personality (mostly our faults, anyway), as I grew into the adolescent stage, our relationship became strained. We fought more. We pushed each other’s buttons. He would get frustrated and become silent, making passive-aggressive comments that would set me off, and then I would get irritated and lose my temper. I would stomp out of the room and immediately, within earshot of me, Dad would complain to Mom about me. Then I would shout, I hear you, Dad! and Dad would revert back to brittle silence and Mom would get high-handed, playing moralistic referee, and say, now you two need to cut it out. Then I would resent my father not only for being passive-aggressively baiting me, but also for coming between my mother and I. This happened fairly often until I went away to school.
Don’t get me wrong, I love my father. I could not ask for more wonderful, indulgent parents. I do think our relationship has improved with distance. When I went to university (a 750-mile drive or two hour plane ride away), we both mellowed. Not having to deal with each other every day, each having our individual freedoms, both of us getting more alone-time with Mom, me not being a selfish, petulant teenager anymore…all of this was helpful. We argued less, but were still aware of the painful similarities in our behavior and also the differences in our personalities that sparked conflict. Summers at home would still be trying, even short visits now can be tricky if I’m not careful with what I say.
Last winter was an especially trying visit home. Dad was going through a stressful period at the office, expecting retirement to be imminent but unwelcome. He doesn’t want to retire but knows he is the oldest lawyer in the firm and will have to step down eventually. He was touchy and I was sick of hearing about his problems. One night, it was very dark out and Dad had gotten out of the car to do something–now I can’t remember what. Mom and I were parking the car. Mom, who had also become tired of Dad’s depressive whining, said with a chuckle, ‘We could back over him and say it was an accident. That we didn’t see him in the dark. You know he’s worth a lot more before he retires.’ I raised an eyebrow. She continued, ‘His life insurance goes way down after retirement…’ Then she named a couple impressive figures, comparing the pre-retirement payoff to the post-retirement payoff. One was significantly higher than the other. ‘So Mom, you’re saying we could kill Dad with the car, say it was an accident, get a lot of money for him and…not get caught?’ Mom smiled. We sat for a minute, watching Dad out the back window, thinking about it. Mom and I could live comfortably. She could even move in with me if she wanted and we could buy a nice house somewhere. We wouldn’t have to put up with Dad being difficult ever again. I had an image of the two of us sitting in a lavish penthouse overlooking Central Park, drinking martinis and cackling wildly. More importantly, I would have Mom to myself forever. We had always gotten along better anyway. It might be fun. ‘Do it! Do it!’ I yelled with gusto. Mom considered and sighed. ‘I can’t…he’s your father…’
Okay, cut to the chase: virginity. I wasn’t married to her—I’ve never married. But that’s not the thing of it. My penis isn’t a big as I’d like, right? I’m not saying I’d like something out of fair proportion with the rest of my body—I’ve got a decent size face, I suppose, my feet are actually a little too big, so there goes that bit of mythology… No, it’s just that, as a kid? Girl pulls off those baggy pants of yours, she determines the course of the rest of your life. And in this particular case, I mean, I tried to avoid it. Really. I won’t lie to you, wasn’t any religious thing, I didn’t feel the eye of God peering down at me from behind the proverbial whatever, this was pure fear. Shame. I’d seen pictures. I knew where I fit into the scale of things.
I used a broomst—. Right, let me back up. Seventeen: I’m on holiday in New York, I’m browsing in this bookshop—don’t ask why, must have been raining. I’m browsing through the language section—I’m thinking “Fuck me! Pashto! Who the fuuuuu…???” Typical, you know. And the ol’ peripheral vision, irrespective of my foci—sorry, lit major—regardless of what’s dead in front of me… it’s working its own job, yeah? Scanning about for your everyday dangers. And there she is. I didn’t know what that meant yet, of course, that she’d be she, but there she is. All in black, that sort of tattered funereal look. Black spikes of coal done up under her eyelids. I mean, I don’t care how you were raised, when you’re seventeen that’s the stuff of dreams. Some sort of devil must’ve figured his way into me, propelled me over, worked his own words through me. Five minutes of mindless gab, then: “Will you write to me?” I ask her. “If you’ve got a pen I’ll write you as soon as you leave,” she goes. Of course I had a fucking pen—sorry—probably had a stamped envelope, too—the fucking devil was looking out for me. Sorry.
Skip five months ahead. She plans a trip over. She flies in, I drive to the airport—it’s like 4 hours. I mean, forget I was eighteen by then and particularly desperate, I was also living at the ends of the earth. But here was this, like, angel missionary coming to see me. A five-minute face-to-face drawn out by a handful of letters and all night phoners. And now here she was, mine for a full week. Older than me by about 7
I asked her one time: what sort of uninvented cookie sounds nice? She says “Star-shaped. Cloves and chocolate. Powdered sugar.” Never baked before in my life; there I am, sex-starved kid, covered head to toe in Droste. Love, or whatever.
Point is. We’re together a week. I try my damn best to avoid the whole sex thing at first, bad as I want it—and I mean, come on, a woman travels that far she’s not coming for board games. That was one of my tactics, by the way, I knew she was wordy, so I broke out the Scrabble every night until we passed out from syllable-fatigue. But this one night.
I want you to know—I had every intention of being honorable, I was a nice kid, I wanted the whole thing to be really…nice. I just.
She’s obviously not having any more of the Scrabble. This much is clear. It was either face the moment or…
I considered killing her at one point, very briefly. I’m not ashamed to say that, I’ve spoken to lots of guys, I know it passes through everyone’s minds—it’s a primal reaction to shame, one of the options is killing the person you’re facing in shame, it comes, it passes, there it is. Didn’t do that. But there I am, face to…face…with…it.
Couldn’t get hard. Simple. Shame. Put your own-fucking-self in an ice cold bath, see how well you manage—sorry. Listen, to some people it’s no big deal but you go through the first stages of pre-adult life knowing you’re… inadequate… So I go down on her.
And I go into a sort of trance. I’m still not getting hard. My mouth’s on autopilot, my brain is off in every direction. I got the one hand rubbing like mad, trying to arouse the limp little shit, you know, and the other— well, that one must have been guided by that same devil, cause… again, my peripheral vision had been working past my specific foci and…it was just about instantaneous, see, I just reached out for it…
I want you to know that I used a condom on it. I don’t know if this helps or not, but maybe it shows a certain… foresight and…care? You could get a sliver, you’re not careful. And I was cautious about it. It’s clear what I’m saying, yeah? A broomstick. A wooden… broomstick.
Wasn’t for very long, one tends to notice fairly quickly when one’s got, like…
I drove her back to the airport, of course. This was years ago… What’s never left me is she was a virgin, too. Hadn’t realized that at the time. And I can’t shake the feeling: she didn’t lose it to a human being. She lost it to a bit of wood. We were just kids and all. I don’t think either one of us really understood what… I mean, I’m sure she’s fine about it all now. It’s not like we still speak, of course. Funny thing is, I never did, you know, actually insert my own self… But I’ve always considered that my first time.
She seemed to genuinely like the cookies, though. I always thought that was at least something.
Do you know what it’s like to have a wife and kids? I suppose you know what it feels like to have pressure. Expectations. I love my wife, I love my children very much. I’ve been working to the bone trying to give them everything. I don’t see them as much as I’d like. Work. It’s consumed me. We all make sacrifices.
So there was this deal at work. If I secured the deal I’d get a huge bonus. I also made deal the kids and my wife. If I got the bonus I’d take them on a Disney cruise. We’d go to the parks and we’d spend solid family time together. They haven’t stopped talking about Space Mountain since our last trip. I really needed this, to be with the kids and my wife, my beautiful wife, Diane. You know she doesn’t even look me in the eye anymore when I tell her I love her. I needed to do this for us.
Well the day of the meeting came. I felt good, looked good too. Wore a crisp shirt Diane had laid out for me. I was running right on time. Got on the Tube. The carriage was empty except for a young lady-she smiled at me. I thought it was going to be a good day. But this woman. I was one stop away from Embankment. She dropped the Metro. I went to pick it up and the next thing- she was on the floor- she, she was convulsing. She wouldn’t stop, shaking all over and, and I froze. How was I to help her? Her mouth, she was foaming-like a rabid dog. And then the carriage doors opened at Embankment. My stop. I— I got off. I didn’t mean to. I couldn’t let her-I mean there are usually lots of people waiting. I don’t have a medical degree. Someone must have seen her, helped her.
I had to get to that meeting. Diane would have left me. I keep seeing her face-I just- I need to know that it’s all right now. We’re leaving for Orlando in two weeks.
Took a “sick” day off of work, made sure others would be there to cover my desk.
Rode 45 minutes to the mountains for what was to be a stellar day – 24 inches of powder in 24 hours. Unfortunately, the weather changed fast. 20 minutes away we heard on the radio that the mountain pass was closed (this meant we could not go any further until the avalanche control and clean up work was done and this could take hours to a day) We talked about going back, trying another day, but decided we’d come too far now and had to wait.
Minutes later we turn on the radio just in case and what luck! pass open! We think, wow, That was quick! we hardly lost any time and aren’t we sooooo LUCKY?!
We arrive but I realize I don’t have my ski lift pass. I also realize quickly when I get dropped off into a slushy LAKE on the side of the road, that NOT wearing waterproof shoes right now is the worst idea I’ve ever had. The whole walk up the “sidewalk river” I start bashing meself, OY why can’t I remember shit, why can’t I wear the right shoes….
30 minutes later I’ve gotten me replacement lift ticket and I’m back out in the rain and “sidewalk river” lamenting over me bad choices thus far, but feeling excited to go on the mountain.
I expect to get picked up again at the same “slushy lake” location but I get a call that my partner in crime has parked the car down a ways and can’t start it up again. Bullocks! Just our luck and just my luck, now I’ve got to walk farther in the rain. The car is parked in small lake which I have to wade through and since I left my waterproof jacket in the car – I’m already soaking wet.
Maybe it’s the battery my companion says. 45 minutes later we’ve phoned security to come give us a jump. Nothing. Must not be the battery. Maybe it’s the starter, my companion says. His next comment made me a mite bit nervous – well you see when his starter went out on this very car years ago, he learned (from the internet) how to “get around” such things. He proceeds to have me ride with security to get a “large selection of many different size phillips head screw drivers” I return with one large one which suffices. He removes the dash with the speedometer, fuel gage, clock etc. and proceeds to unscrew all matter of parts.
1 long cold hour later he figures out it must NOT be the starter, he rests, we eat our lunch that we’ve packed in silence and he begins the tiring work of putting his dash back together.
He makes the decision that we’ll have to call for a tow back an hour to the city. We call and the tow is confirmed.
Politely he urges me to “get a couple runs in before we have to leave” but I am freezing and don’t want to be rude.
Some time between when we called and when the truck should have been there we get a call back “The mountain pass is closing for Avalanche control and cleanup and we aren’t sure when it will open again, we would be there in time, but wouldn’t be able to tow you back to the city, we’d have to tow you” in the exact opposite direction than the city. And of course, no one knows when they will open the roads again.
Well it’s settled then, we will get a few runs in before we leave. We’ve got to get warm somehow. Our second run down I am freezing again, can’t feel me toes, and since it has been raining this whole time we’re on mostly ice, not snow and we are dripping wet, soaking wet, water is seeping through our water-proof clothing. We learn from the lift operator that the roads are open again. I call and request the tow and gleefully take one more run, knowing I will be going home soon enough. The last run is a particularly tough one for me and I finally found the deep powdery snow in all this wet muck and I fell so many times I had snow shoved way up on me chest and way down me britches. Burrrrrr
I decide to head a different way down the mountain once I can see the lodge, and I head straight for it. Of course me gogs are covered in water and I can’t really see.
Before going back to the car I need to relieve meself and dry off a bit. I used the entire roll of paper towels in the dispenser taking a mere 4 feet back to my companion. I’ve taken my soaking wet gloves off so my trek back to the car trying to grip the edge of a plowed snow bank on the side of the road and walk on an inches thick piece of ice to avoid having to wade up to my ankles in the “road river” freezes me hands to ice.
In the car we continue to pat ourselves dry with newspaper (surprisingly absorbent) and just as we’ve cracked open new hand warmers to hold…
Our tow truck hero arrives. He hooks up the car and tells us we can wait in the cab. We jump in and get comfortable just long enough for him to try to put the car in neutral and try to start it.
Guess what, it wasn’t the battery, it wasn’t the starter, it wasn’t even the alternator or any of those other troublesome parts to a dumb car. It was dumb people.
If your car is slightly between gears (and not in neutral) when you try to start it, IT WILL NOT START! lesson learned.
Unfortunately we got so comfortable in that tow truck that my companion put his phone down and forgot to pick it up (as we happily jumped out of the tow cab and ran back to the started car, excited we could drive it home)
So we have no idea we are just so excited, we drive to get coffee and dry off more and get on the road home. I get a phone call which prompts my companion to look for his cell phone, but it can’t be found. I call him, but we don’t hear the ring. We realize where the phone is.
I call the tow company and to our surprise “we should be right next to him right now” the tow company says, he stopped to pick someone up on the road and we should see him any second, sure enough he’s the 3rd tow truck we come to, but there he is. And of course since I’m on the passenger side it’s safer for me to get out and wade through the river and cling to the plowed snow bank with me bare hands for his phone?! yep
I retrieve the phone and thank him for his help again and wade back to the car.
We reach the city and sit in more traffic than we’ve ever sat in and finally make it home 11 hours after we left the house, still soaking wet and terribly uncomfortable.
The next day at work I find out one coworker was actually sick and didn’t make it to work, which made more work for the others, another found out her dad died and still came to work, the other knew I was faking and didn’t say a word.
instant karma, ain’t it a bitch
Grocery shopping for more than I thought we needed.
Tired and hungry, and being the end of the day, I was disappointed there was not much to be had in the way of samples as snacks.
At the end of our journey I was surprised to be left at the counter while she wandered off to check for just one more thing. (I was sure she wouldn’t return in less than 4 minutes, because she’d gone to look for ice cream or chocolate and she could go to the 10 items or less lane once she returned)
It was busy and I felt pressured to pay when she didn’t return. I searched for my wallet just long enough to meet the glaring eyes of at least 2 others behind me. I paid right away, but I confess that, while only for a moment, I resented paying for food that she cooks for me.
Outside she suggested I leave the cart and we carry our bags, of course, so I push the cart back and we unload the bags. I also unloaded a 6 pack from the bottom of the cart. And I remembered I didn’t get carded because that 6 pack never left the bottom of the cart.
I didn’t pay for it, and I confess that I smiled and felt happy.
When I was six, every lunchtime at school we would play a variety of fun and silly games from Shera Princess of Power, to chasing the boys around with a strawberry fruit roll-up on our finger shouting ‘Bloody finger, bloody finger.’ We were a bit mad at that age. One of the games we often played was McDonalds – yes, as in the fast-food restaurant. We would set up shop underneath the slide in the playground and take large leaves and fill them with sand, fold the leaves over the sand to make a hamburger and give them to other children passing by. One lunchtime we thought it would be a great idea to throw our sand hamburgers at the boys. And so we started lobbing our sandburgers all around the place, sand exploding, leaves flying. It was great fun. Until I took aim at Ryan Clifford who was running a little too quickly for my hapless aim and I instead nailed the mother who was on ‘lunch duty’ right in the bum with my sandburger – whoops. My heart started pounding, she wasn’t one of the nice mums, and in a panic I ran and hid behind a tree. Well, as it happened the boy who was ALWAYS getting in trouble happened to be standing near the spot I had just run from, so when the lunch-mum turned around and saw him. She jumped to conclusions, assume he was the one who had smacked her on the bum with the sandburger and immediately led him away quickly by the hand to a bench away from the playground where he was given a fierce talking to – which he protested all the while – and he had to stay on the bench for the rest of lunch and I think was deprived of playtime for a few more days afterwards. I was relieved not to have been in trouble, but I confess, feel guilty to this day when I think about what a coward I was and how I should’ve owned up to it and not worried so much about sullying my perfect six year old image.
I wrecked it. My marriage. On tour I ran into an old flame who picked me up and twirled me in his arms. Later, we walked hand in hand down the misty streets of a pseudo European city. He seduced me by tying a knot in a drink straw with his tongue. On the way to the hotel, we saw a fortune teller who saw the love triangle in our eyes. Would we make love? Forbidden, but kinda sorta. Later, in a large metropolitan city, I met him and we did. Was that when my marriage began to dissolve? I never confessed. Yet, my ex-husband did strange things. Seeing a fortune teller, he was convinced to his life savings to her to bury in the ground to bring good fortune to a helpless girl. I didn’t know. Infidelity and money. Did my cheating, the breach of marriage vows, reave us of a happy life together? Years later, having tried to reunite, we could never trump my original sin. I live in that pseudo-European city now and I drive by the scene of my crime.
I have lived a long life of denial. For about 15 years, I have denied the fact that I have bipolar. I have done so many horrible things in my lifetime from stealing a car to not eating for 2 weeks just because. My brain always told at the time of those acts that I was normal and everyone else was sick for telling me I had an illness. I tried several different medications but I only took them for no longer than a week. I was so certain that I did not need help. There was no real jaw dropping event that caused my feelings to change. I was just thinking one day and realized that no one could do the amount of damage that I did and not have an illness. Part of my brain still rebelled against the fact, but a stronger, more urgent part knew that something was wrong. That is when everything about my thought process started to change. The change did not come overnight, but it did come. There was a guy that I had been seeing for years that was very abusive. I always made excuses for him and thought that the way he treated me was love. I came to understand that anyone who treated you that way did not genuily love you. I was able to leave him and not look back. I used to write hundreds of bad checks and thought nothing of it. Today, I cringe at the thought of a check book. I understand that going that route will lead to nothing but pain. I used to escort and sleep with lots of men for money. I thought nothing of it, it was just a fast and easy way of getting money. Today, I have two jobs as a hostess. The hours are long and I get tired, but I know in my heart that I earned that money the right and legal way. I used to avoid my family and not want anything to do with them. Today, I talk to them on a regular basis and want to be with them. I stil have my struggles, but I know that if I stay on the right path, that nothing but good and happiness will come of this. It was not easy and as I have said befor, it took 15 years for me to get to this point, but I think that 15 years of bad and now happiness is worth far more that to continue with a lifetime of pain.
i confess that these days im undeniably selfish and have formed a habit of taking things i have no right to have, other peoples time under false pretences, breaks at work i haven’t worked hard for, respect from people who don’t know the full truth. im no trying to mislead anyone but i end up asking for things and people give them to me and then when it comes time to honour some kind of obligation it seems not to have been understood the boundaries that i am living within that are perhaps stopping me being unselfish, dunno if anyone will understand, i guess the gist is that i don’t hide the nature of my being although in some cases i have and they are the ost painfull because at least with the others i can think well wasn’t it obvious what i am and that i wouldn’t be able to offer what your asking for. why did you invest so much in me when i can nly give what it is im giving, what did you expect? is what im giving so negligible. anyone who thinks they can comment please do. i like attention and to feel understood.
I confess…I leant forwards.
Because I get on at Orpington and it’s just the end of rush hour I sometimes don’t get a seat.
I’m sure some people believe this is only fair. I am a large man and I often catch the disappointment in peoples eyes as they stand and I sit down and take a seat and a little of the next. Perhaps it’s just my own insecurities but I’m sure they look at me and believe that I should stand. I’m sure they believe I should burn a few extra calories before I shuffle into my chair at work and clamp my desk in between my folds for the day.
I understand, I feel the same, I should stand, I know that. But there is a reason I am like this and it’s not because I stand. I am a fat man but an intelligent man and my mind is still active even if my body is not. It feels a bit like a wall around me and now I don’t let anyone get to know me. I can’t get anyone to want to know me.
Sometimes it’s easier to be the person that people think you are.
When you’re sitting down on a train it is a different world, a world of belts and handbags, pram handles and misplaced elbows. You settle underneath a canopy of arms and newspapers, never sure which limb belongs to which body.
That morning I had managed to get myself a seat on the aisle just by the door and as usual at each station stop the carriage had filled and everyone shuffled down to receive the new load.
I had seen her before. She wasn’t a regular but I’d seen her on the 9.20 a few times. I didn’t notice her right away as I was reading the paper of the person next to me but they turned the page and adjusted the angle so I couldn’t intrude anymore and I turned back towards the carriage.
And there she was or should I say, and there they were! Next to me, right there next to me they were. They were almost glowing, looking kind of dewy, her beautiful legs. She stood with her back to me. She wore brown boots with heels up to her knees and a skirt that just kind of tucked under her arse. She wasn’t wearing tights; just her skin was showing, her young skin, and god I wanted to touch it.
I needed to touch it so badly. This kind of hot ache came over me. My arm was lying on the rest at the side and without moving it I just stretched out my fingers to see if they could just brush against one. I looked around to see if anyone could see me but the man next to me was engrossed in his puzzle in his paper and the carriage was so full that I was hidden from sight under the blanket of bags and free papers.
I stretched my fingers a little further. I wasn’t watching, I was just feeling, just waiting for my fingers to reach that soft fresh skin.
God I hadn’t felt another persons skin in so long, I just wanted one little stroke to remember what it felt like, one little touch to fill me up. I reached a little further and I couldn’t resist looking. My hand was hanging just under her skirt, just asking for me to reach a little further.
Suddenly the train braked. The others around me shuffled or jolted forwards but I am a large man and remained quite still. But quicker than I can explain it to you now I realized I could jolt forward and touch her without any blame, without any fear.
So I leant forward copying the movements of the fellow passengers and sunk my fingers in between them.
My god.
It was just a second and then I pulled my hand away. I stroked the side as I pulled away. Before I had time to even relish in this ecstatic moment I began my apologies. ‘Oh god, I’m so sorry. Are you ok? These damn drivers? Would you like my seat?’ I rattled off a load of old cliques.
She turned to look at me, it was the first time I had seen her face. She blushed and fumbled around with her skirt. She began to try to move away, putting her bag in between us.
I looked down; I remember buzzing from the touch but being paralyzed with shame. There was no harm done surely. I apologised which I’m sure put her at ease. If it was an accident she’ll not think about it again. Will she?
I’m not funny you know. I’m not odd.
It’s just been so long since I touched someone or someone touched me.
It’s is actually healthy that I want to do that you know! It proves I’m a human doesn’t it and
You can’t forgive me that need, can’t you?
Once at primary school the toilet wouldn’t flush. This was probably because so many kids had been in there before me, but at four years old no one explains to you the ins and outs of exactly how a toilet flush works. Instead my severely underdeveloped sense of logic came to the conclusion that a toilet flushes when you put loo roll down it. I then proceeded, in vain, to cram the toilet full of paper until i had used up the entire roll. Being very aware that this had made me late for class I quickly left hoping no one would notice.
Of course they did and the next day we were made to line up in front of the caretaker until one of us confessed. I was completely terrified, being already very scared of the caretaker, so didn’t say a word. As no one owned up the blame was automatically given to George, a boy who often got himself in trouble. Unfortunately George was also the grandson of the caretaker. What happened next was horrendous to watch. The caretaker didn’t beat him or anything like that, instead he gave him the most humiliating dressing down in front of all of us, telling him over and over how disappointed he was and what an embarrassment he was to the family. The poor little boy just stood there, already having given up any form of protest, as his eyes welled up and his grandfather’s love disappeared out of his reach. To know that I had caused this made me feel horrible inside, but I still kept quiet. I still think about this now, and can’t believe my level of cowardice at such a young age.
I punish myself. I always have done. I do it because i think i deserve it. I don’t cut or hurt myself physically in any way, it’s all mental mainly. Even as a child I would think horrible things, such as all my family were dead to torment myself. Actually, it’s only just occurred to me writing this, but it’s usually connected to what other people say about me or what I think they say about me. When I was younger people called me ‘frigid’ and was taught growing up that sex was dirty and wrong. I used to masturbate and enjoy it, but afterward hate myself for doing it and really get depressed about it. A year ago someone spitefully called me fat. I have never been called fat before and did not understand it. Now I cannot look in the mirror, and when I do I tell myself I am disgusting and grab my flab hard till it hurts. I have a wonderful boyfriend who tells me I’m beautiful and sexy, but I only ever believe it for a second then it’s gone again.
Only thing is the more I tell myself I’m fat the more I eat. I’d love to be bulimic but my friend used to be and it really tore him apart, as well as giving him a lot of serious long-term health problems. I’d starve myself but I’m too much of a wimp. I definitely wouldn’t say I have a problem because there’s nothing to define it. When I’m thin maybe this will all go away finally. I guess this isn’t really much of a confession, it’s just nice to talk about it sometimes.
Ok god I don’t know where to begin, I’m kind of nervous. Ok, ok here goes. I was at a charity sale, one where you had to pay a large entrance fee and then you got to go around stalls where people were selling clothes and jewellery at a discount and the proceeds would go to charity. And a really good friend of mine was working there and got me in free, so I’m walking around looking at all the cool stuff, and I picked up a few pieces, but then I got to this jewellery stand and there was all this lovely stuff and I tried a load of stuff on and settled for a small necklace which I paid for. But as I was walking out I passed by a column which had mirrors on it and saw my reflection. I noticed I was wearing a necklace that I’d tried on, but hadn’t paid for. And I stood there looking in the mirror thinking, well, I got out of the store with it, without anyone noticing. And before I knew it, I was walking out the door, past the security guards, up the ramp and out onto the street. I felt kind of sick with nerves, and I have no idea why I did it, but I guess it must have been the thrill. And I was so scared that I’d been caught on video, and waited for several days expecting a phone call but it never came. But now I feel just rotten that I stole something that would have benefited charity. And the worst thing is …. the jewellery stand was run by my friend who got me in for free. I can’t even wear the necklace in front of her for fear that she’ll recognise it as one of hers and wonder where I got it.
even though I wake up next to her every morning….I dream of another many nights. and my most quite thoughts are not of the one I see daily, but of the one I may never see again. i confess to everyone, but the one I long for
Im really young, but i have a lot to say. Im not a school bully and i try my best everyday. I live in two different houses (divorced parents). the first, the place i feel myself, is my mothers house with my mom and brother. she is bipolar, has ADD, and has no job. the second, my fathers house, i live with my 2 year old stepmother and stepsister, 14 pets, and sometimes my brother (when we switch id different…). anyway, there are many reasons every night i pray that the judge lets me live with my mom. i didnt always feel this way. when my parents were married, i never can recall them nnot yelling at someone. my dad never told me he loved me, making me hungry for his attention. my mom, worked almost all night and all day to keep me and my mentally disabled brother happy. and even if when i was 6, i still loved my family. then things got out of hand. daddy was gone when i came home one day in the fall and mommy was crying. she had bruises and so did my brother. but not me. what seemed years (a few weeks) of battles later, almost forever of middle school women asking me how i felt about it, dad wanted me to see his new appartment. sure, there were drug dealers and i couldnt go outside to explore, but i loved it. one day, i met my stepmom and in a few weeks, BAM i had a stepsister and the were married. she was so nice. i told her i loved her and she told me she loved me. like a second mother! before we moved, my big brother raped me at 11, and (2 days?…) before i found out my dad, my DADDY, knew. until i was sick and i told my mom. my family wants me to forgive and forget, but i cant. LAter my stepmother turned colder and colder. everyday on the way home from school we sit in 30 min. of no talking, if im lucky she will be on the phone or have the radio on. i can hear her laugher with my brother and dad and her daughter… but i wish i could hear it up close. i hope every night that what i did wrong could be forgiven. but maybe im just like my brother. “i cant help it”. my mother is perfect. she loves me and my brother to death. she has saved me from going insane. i trust nobody. boys tell me things i cant believe, but i think if i told them this they would hate me. my bestfriend is a whore. shes dated almost every guy i like, she has has sex over and over before she was 13, and she is selfish. she is rich, im not. she is one of the most perfect looking girls i have ever seen in my life, but all her other friends have told me she will never be pretty on the inside. you might say i am jealous, but i would go crazy if i was her. being stuck in a world of sex, trying to be fake, and bad music? no.
a lot of my friends havent even been to my house because at my fathers, they act so fake happy it scary, my brother at my moms house is addicted to games and most of the time i dont see him, he is in the basement, or in one of his fits, and i always have to make my dogs and my mom not worry and make sure he doesnt destroy something, or hit my mom or cut himself. i dont trust one soul, and id like to keep it that way. but it REALLY bugs me when someone complains about how “nobody loves them” or “the girl/guy they love doesnt love them”. but, as always, i tell them why they are perfect and love the little things when on the inside, i wish i had a life like that. where all i had to think about was finding a boyfriend. but then again. im 14.