One more day til Doomsday.

I wanna start another thread, but the board is on the fritz, again and I need to write (and by writing, I mean talking, in a safe way, where no one will yell back at me)

My attendant Donna was here today. She's the one who said I was "letting myself" slide into depression. We've been together 6 years and she knows me.

When you're a hermit and trust no one, that says something.

Her daughter turns 22 today, she said.

(22 is such a %^%$#ty birthday. It was for me)

She made me breakfast and I turned on the TV. Clifford the Big Red Dog was on.

"What did you read when you were younger?" she asked.

Uncomfortable pause "Mr. Mugs," (Did we have to bring this up?)

"Clifford the Big Red Dog was really popular up here," Donna went on, "You had French on one side of the page and English on the other."

"Most of the time, my parents and I were nowhere near Quebec," I replied.

Mercifully. Praise my angels for that.

I would greatly appreciate it if people didn't ask me about birthdays, or my childhood. I want nothing to do with French or Quebec. It just stirs things up for me. I am even painfully aware that what I am drinking for breakfast this morning, cranberry juice...I know where I acquired a taste for it and I can barely stand to have it in the house because of that fact.

A childhood is not something to be cherished. It is something to be hated and ashamed of. It is something to cry about. It is full of pain.

The music I listened to as a child, by Raffi, if by some wild flight of imagination, I were to have children, (I don't plan on bringing any children into this screwed-up world. They'd have a screwed-up mother and besides, sex sickens me.) I would not be reading to them, I would not be singing to them, I would not be playing games with them. I never want to see another child again. When I see children laughing, I feel them suffering. I saw the laughter die in Montreal, at the psychiatric institute.

It died at home.

Interacting with these kids would bring up memories of my own childhood and I don't want to do that. Seeing a book, hearing a song, can do it. You might not see it in my face or in my eyes, but in my mind, something goes off inside and the pain is unspoken, unsaid.

I'm not watching TV. It's not just because I have no right to enjoy myself. I don't want to connect anything I watch to this "happy" time in my life. When I weakened to my shame and had to be punished.

I was collecting notes to write a book on this time. I promised myself I'd do that. I promised a friend. I promised my angels. It was going to be a great book.

A writer doesn't destroy what she writes. She can edit it for spelling and content, but destroying it is like destroying a part of herself. And that's what I want to do with the notes.

No notes, it fades from memory. And if it fades from memory, it doesn't exist. Cut myself off from everything connected with this time and it "disappears" I'm still within reality, but within a day or two, it's like it never happened.

That's how it should work, but my memories can torture me for years. Even if the shrinks are kind, I will block these memories out too. And cut myself off from everyone and everything that is connected with this time in my life, even the Church and Doug.

Cut myself off so I can't be punished, or hurt again. Getting involved with people is only stirring deep emotions in me that I never knew I had: Terrible loneliness. Doug said to allow myself to feel, but I can't let that happen, every day I force myself to get involved is another day I find it harder to cut myself off from a world that terrifies me. Even writing is a form of contact, a bond with humanity that has to stop, for my sake. I want nothing to do with humanity.

Humanity=Being hurt

I'm praying to my angels that things will change, but it's a losing battle. I cannot utter that prayer, because I want to run away.

There is a thing more crippling than cerebral palsy: the prison of your own mind.