October 13,1994
Dear Diary,
First of all, I’ll have you know that I think this is extremely stupid. Writing in a diary is not going to help me with anything. It won’t make me happy; it won’t help to "ease my burdens." This is just writing, it's not like will ever help me with my problems. What are you supposed to do, let me write all my sadness out, it's not like you're a real person who can give me advice.
So, while I am writing right now, it’s only to show Renee that I am indeed using this, and her gift wasn’t in vain. It’s only because she’s practically reading over my shoulder, just to make sure I’m “getting my feelings out." You and I both know that I’m never going to use you. Never.
Renee' delusional if she thinks that you'll help me.
-Brandy
October 18,1994
Dear Diary,
I know I said I wouldn’t use you, and I won’t. It’s just this one time, and only because if I didn’t write I’d be destroying my room right now. In case you didn’t get it already, I’m upset.
Today, Mom came home with a big smile on her face. That’s when I knew the cycle was starting again. The cycle of “I’m so sorry's and “I’ll make it up to you's, all before a stunning relapse into drinking again. Real shocker.
“I bought cookies!” she said.
“Am I supposed to care?” I snapped.
“They’re your favorite kind,” she said, seeming disappointed.
I peered into the bag and saw a plastic container of chocolate chip cookies.
“Mother, I’m allergic to chocolate. Shouldn’t you know that by now?”
She sputtered for words.
“Oh, right, you didn’t care enough.”
“Brandy Rose Alenader, how dare you treat your own mother that way!”
“It’s the truth.”
“It slipped my mind. That’s all.”
“Yes, mother, because an extreme allergy can “slip your mind."
She went into the kitchen to unpack the groceries, sighing and muttering about how difficult children were to deal with. Honestly, if I'm so hard to deal with, she should've never had me. It would've saved both of us from clashing almost all the time.
And now I’m reading this and looking back, and I don’t feel so angry anymore; I just feel an overpowering sadness. Why doesn’t she care about me? No, that’s not a good question, since I already know the answer. It’s not that she doesn’t care about me; it’s that she can’t. After all, she can barely care about herself. How could she possibly care about me? I don't even matter to her. I could die and she wouldn't even notice. It's not that I'm angry at her, I'm angry at myself for letting her get to me.
-Brandy
