Sunday, August 20, 2006
She used to edit my journals/diaries.
I know this. I know this because I know she used to read them. How? I asked her. Several months ago I accused her of having read the journals I kept in high school. She admitted the atrocity, and claimed that as a mother, it was her responsibility to make sure I was safe. If that meant reading my journals, so be it. I wasn't particularly upset because (1) it was over a decade ago; and (2) my life in high school was anything but interesting. Which is what I told her:
"Mom, I said. "My life is high school was anything but interesting. I wasn't really doing anything."
"I know," she responded. "That's why I stopped reading."
Now, with comic timing being what it is, I know that I should have stopped at that last sentence. "That's why I stopped reading" is a good punchline. Why go on and ruin it? Well, the answer is that I just can't help myself. I'm still in journal-transcription mode, and every now and then I see an odd mark. A quiggly delete mark. An S-shaped, "you inverted your letters, dumbass!" mark. Did I really self-edit my journals after I wrote them? I ponder the situation. And then it hits me.
Like me, my mother couldn't help herself, either. She read my journals, pen in hand, and though I'm sure she tried to stop herself, she edited as she went along.
Saturday, August 19, 2006
October 15, 1994
I’m at Molly’s right now. Things have been really weird lately. I don’t know. Maybe it’s teen angst. Or maybe my feelings have been swinging so much because I’m pregnant, but then that would have to be Immaculate Conception, as I’ve never had sex.