Wonderful

Miss Landers told me there is nothing wrong with me, and that lots of people come to her. She says it just shows strength on my part that I put myself out there and went to her for help. Whatever, mum makes me come. I would never do this willingly. I think she knows that too but pretends that I am the big hero. How could she think I came willingly when I haven't opened my mouth to speak once? She pretends that a journal is one of her wonderful psychiatrist methods instead of what it is--a way to pass the hour and a half I spend there every week. "I thought we'd try something new. You can take this journal and free write in it. You can write whatever you want. It's confidential so no one will read it." That's what she said. I bet she's reading every word and telling mum, too. Maybe even dad just because he's famous and she wants an excuse to talk to him. I can tell that's the only reason she puts up with my stubbornness. She's a groveling little wench. I know she's reading it, I know it. Well, Miss Landers, Fuck you. And pass that on to mum and dad as well.

I write in this piece of crap anyway, because it's better than sitting there staring into her ugly blue eyes for the whole time. I detest her. She's a complete fraud and a simpering mouse. She's all smiles and she knits her eyebrows into concern. It almost makes me vomit to see how fake she is. The phrase "sickeningly sweet" aptly applies. This whole thing wouldn't be so bad if we had gotten a good therapist but dad fell for her star struck charms right off the back. "Oh, please, stop." "No really Mr. Potter--" she laced that part with flattery "Do call me Harry." "Oh my"--and she blushes and flutters her eyes--"Well, ok then Harry." It went on like that for fifteen minutes.

But god if I have to write in this journal then I don't want to waste the pages on her. She'd probably be all too happy to read about herself. I'm guessing the ideal thing for me to write about now would be my past right? Screw that. Doodling sounds better to me.

*******

I think she erased the cow. I drew a cow and I swear it's gone today. Who cares, this whole ordeal is shit anyway. I'd rather talk about my bitchy ex girlfriend than my soap-opera childhood. I'm over it, so I wish they would get over it too. I think there using me. If they send me to counseling and I have a sobby outpouring of my past then it will all be "fixed" and they can stop feeling guilty. If they wanted me to be ok they should have done something when I cried myself to sleep every night instead of now, when there are no tears left and my emotions are gone.

Leanne can account for the last part. When we broke up she told me I was a heartless creep with less compassion then any boy she'd ever met. Funny how things turn out so bad. That's the story of my life. I guess she's right. Of course I wish she would remember that she didn't always feel that way. We were best friends growing up and she went through a lot of the hell with me. Forget this, I'm not going there.

*******

She told me she wants me to start writing about my past now. She swears she isn't reading it but that I need to start getting things out, even if I am only telling it to a pad of paper. She's going to skim over it to make sure I'm doing it. FUCK YOU. I hope her beady eyes catch that one. So what, shall I scribble this down in signature flashback italics or just recite a nice little monologue? Leanne told me once that I was a good writer, but does she really expect poetry from me now?

I close my eyes when I get too sad
I think thoughts that I know are bad
Close my eyes and I count to ten
Hope it's over when I open them

I wish I could tell you it wasn't always this way, and spout out a lovely memory of a family picnic or a sentimental play session. But from as far back as I can remember there was always bickering. We'd be at the park and mum was pushing me on the swings and she'd be tired and ask daddy to take over. He'd be talking to thin air (as far as I could tell back then--it was a wizarding business tool) and would insist he was in the middle of something important. Before I knew it all the other kids were staring and mom and dad were red in the face. That only went on for a little while before I made it stop. I had a tantrum and we talked and they apologized. Silly me for thinking that was that, and the fighting was over.

Once the raging fights were kept within the house they grew worse. There was absolute freedom there for them to be loud and cruel without drawing public attention. I remember how I was always confused. All my relatives would fawn over the lovely couple and tell me stories about how in love mummy and daddy were, and about how they got together, and before that when they were such great friends. He would bring her a dozen roses every Friday. She'd make him breakfast in bed on Sundays and they'd sit and talk for hours. He'd go grocery shopping with her just so they could be together. She sang for him at the wedding. He saved her life. She saved his life. But all I ever saw where hurt glances, tears, and weary sighs. For a good period of time I thought it was my fault. From what I'd heard they were perfectly happy and in love, but once they had me...well as far as I was concerned they might as well have been strangers forced into an arranged marriage from what I saw of their love.

*******

I think mum knows what I wrote because she started crying when I said goodnight yesterday. It's ironic that her tears spur me to open up more. I want her to hurt like I did, like I do.

Hope my mom and I hope my dad

Will figure out why they get so mad

Hear them scream, I hear them fight

They say bad words that make me wanna cry

I got older and everyday my hope that their fighting was a passing phase grew dim. I started kindergarten and took solace in power rangers and kiddy brooms. I was immersed in mixed culture of wizards and muggles which only added to my confusion about life. The only thing I was certain of in life was that Mummy and Daddy hated each other and maybe hated me. I remember the first time Leanne came over and we were up in my room coloring when a dish in my kitchen shattered. I squeezed my eyes shut and she got up to see what had happened. I raced to the door and slammed it shut before she got out. A loud curse sounded from downstairs and I saw her eyes widen. She didn't know what it meant but it was laced with malice. I knew what it meant. I think I knew every curse word in the book as a six year old. I started to cry and I melted down in the corner of my room. Leanne sat and wept with me. She left that day with frightened eyes and I thought that was it. I'm glad she doesn't scare so easy--well at least she didn't then.

Close my eyes when I go to bed

And I dream of angels who make me smile

I feel better when I hear them say

Everything will be wonderful someday

Nighttimes must have been the only time I was happy. For the most part it was peaceful. Mum slept up in the bedroom and Dad collapsed on the fold out couch. I told you Leanne said I was a good writer. That must be the only thing I can thank my parents for. Because of all the pain I became very imaginative. During the day I never had to daydream during school because I saved that for at home. It was like a mental switch--any time their voices started to raise bam I was there on some exciting adventure on some far away place. At night I would close my eyes and picture what I thought were angels. Somehow one of them always ended up being mum, with her soft brown hair and café eyes. I would get mad then and end up yelling out in my sleep.

Promises mean everything when you're little
And the world's so big
I just don't understand how
You can smile with all those tears in your eyes
Tell me everything is wonderful now

One night mum came in when I cried out. There were tears rolling down my cheeks though I don't remember being sad. I remember being happy because in my dream mum and dad where kissing and dancing and when they were done they had come to me and we had hugged. I don't remember that ever happening. Mum came in and asked if I had had a bad dream. I started crying for real then. I didn't answer her but instead asked why she and daddy were mean to each other. She smiled a smile that didn't reach her eyes, and promised me that everything would get better. I didn't know then that she was picturing a &dquo;better" that didn't include dad. I also didn't know that all her promises were lies.

*******

I want to stop and I told Landers that and she smiled bitterly (dad didn't drop me off today so all pretenses are gone) and told me I would keep going until I'd said all there was to say. I told her I'd said it all and she said she didn't think so. I'm not even going to waste curses on her this time.

The fact is I'm tired. I don't see the point in retelling the horrors of my past except for to make peace with it or some bullshit like that. But I don't think that's going to happen. It was hell the first time around and this time it just feels like poison.

I go to school and I run and play
I tell the kids that it's all okay
I laugh aloud so my friends won't know
When the bell rings I just don't wanna go home

I'm not going to lie and over dramatize my sob story. I wasn't always sad and wallowing in depression. I was happy at my primary school. Of course, that just made me even more different than the other kids. What second grader liked school? I don't care about that though, because I was happy and those hours were all I had to cling to. I had lots of friends at school. Leanne and I weren't as close at that time. She was busy with Barbie's and playing kitchen, while the other boys and I ran around playing tag. I loved everything about those times. Spelling Quizzes, Spell Quizzes, Math, Beginners Arithmancy, coloring, play time, and everything else. It was like vacation from what I liked to call the scream house. As happy as I was, sometimes I had to pretend. There were some mornings I would cry in the car all the way to school, my weeping drowned out by the constant bickering from the front seat. I would get to school and plaster a smile to my face and laugh at any chance I got. I thought it would keep my friends from seeing through me. No matter what the days at school were like, one thing held true--I never wanted to go home. But I always did.

Go to my room and I close my eyes

I make believe that I have a new life

I don't believe you when you say

Everything will be wonderful someday

As I got older things begin to change again. The immunity I had built up to the fighting was wearing off and my childish nerve was growing. When I got home I stopped hugging my mom hello and gave her a heartless smile instead. I went straight to my room and got out my toys and played and played until it got dark. Then dad would get home and come to see me. He'd try to bribe me out of my room with offers to play catch. I started to enjoy shutting the door in his face. The small pedestals I had placed my parents on, fell away. I began to resent them. Promises they made became recognizable as feeble attempts to get me to leave things be. "I'm sorry sweetie, we won't fight", meant smile little boy and we'll save this fight for later. Mum always told me everything would be ok, things would get better. I hardly believed anything she said to me anymore and that least of all.

*******

Aren't I done yet? Haven't I said enough? The ice witch says no, that I must go on until the story's got an end. Isn't that priceless...she sees this as a story. Well, I wouldn't want to disappoint my faithful readers so let's get on with it.

I don't wanna hear you say
That I will understand someday
No, no, no, no
I don't wanna hear you say
You both have grown in a different way
No, no, no, no

I've painted you a lovely picture of our home life but I've never told you about what it was like outside of the scream house. Those were the times that I saw what the relatives had spoken about. The loving glances, the sweet touches, the whispered affections. When I was younger I was confused, when I was older I was mad. There were times I wanted nothing more than to run up and hit them both until I was exhausted and re-energized. It must have made them tired, too, all those facades. I still don't know how they were able to act so well. It had me convinced for a while too. At the end of whatever social event we had been at, we would all pile into the car and I would be all smiles thinking that maybe, just maybe, everything would be better now. When we got home I would wait anxiously for them to kiss tenderly before getting out of the car but instead, dad would hop out and walk swiftly into the house. Mom would wait for me to get out and then go in.

Before I start to finish the "story" I want to say, for my own sake, that they were occasionally happy together. There were stray moments of laughter, spare hugs, and a few loving smiles. But in the end they all amounted to nothing more than teasers. The laughter subsided into weary smiles, the hugs became cold, and the smiles faded into worry lines. There, I've said it, I've said that they were happy and now I can get back to the bitter end.

It was bitter yes, but mercifully short. They brought me down to the living room and when dad opened his mouth my eleven year old mind drifted off to Hogwarts, where I'd be going that fall. They held each others hands, for show, and said a bunch of things. There favorite tactic was to bring me into it. I didn't deserve this, it wasn't fair to me, I could be happier. Then they made more promises. God damned promises which they never kept, or even intended to. They told me that they were splitting so we could all be happy. They insisted they wanted to split because they'd grown apart but wanted to still be friends. That's when I flinched in anger. If they had ever been good friends, which I only have proof of in pictures and others words, they hadn't been so in years. I don't think splitting up would rekindle any friendship of theirs.

Five minute later I wrenched myself from the hug they were both trying to give me. It was the first group hug I could remember since I was four, and I wouldn't let them give it to me now. They'd had seven years to hug me like that. The hug was forfeit.

*******

I don't wanna meet your friends
And I don't wanna start over again
I just want my life to be the same
Just like it used to be

Dad moved to LA. Did he know people in LA? Mom started bringing home guys almost immediately. There was always another "friend" over for dinner and they were always cheesy and snotty. Reminds me of Miss Landers. I went through some denial which I can't quite say has ended. I started believing that things had been wonderful, which if you look back at these pages, clearly wasn't. But I started only remembering the good things and insisting to myself that things were great and my parents had ended my happiness for no reason. They could've worked it out. They could've stuck together. I wish I was a big enough person to say that I hope they are happy now that they are apart, but I am not. If they are just as sad as before, then so be it. Why should they deserve happiness that they never gave me a chance at?

Some days I hate everything

I hate everything

Everyone and everything

Please don't tell me everything is wonderful now...

I have nothing more to say, Miss Landers. That is all, it really is. I am here now, sixteen and a shell of something that was never distinguishable anyway. The poison of my past ruined my relationship with Leanne and that was all I had. I'm going to take this with me, Miss Landers, and show it to Leanne. My parents have taken everything from me and I hope they haven't already taken her. I hope it's not too late. I'm scared because I don't know what's going to happen now. I can't even count on a house full of anger to go home to. What do I know anymore?

What do I know anymore?

At least this time there's no one around to tell me everything will be wonderful.