Farsickness

Prolouge

Dear reality
Man I hate writing that, you know the word reality. I wish one day I could be writing dear dreams instead. Speaking of which that's what I'm writing about.(duh this is a dream diary) So this is my new notebook, my old one was a flimsy paperback that was a royal red color, with now off white pages. It looks used and bruised considering I wrote in it after every time I fell asleep. That includes naps on my desk in my senior photography class, naps on my living room floor and when I actually sleep at night. So this time I got a hardcover journal, I thought it would be an improvement. Its the size of a 4th grade chapter book. It's black with dark gray streaks that I painted on. Making it look like a goth version of "the starry night" by Vincent Van Gogh, but without a focal point and not as good. Sense my diary is store bought it reads "wishes do come true..." Before I painted it, it could have easily come off an elementary book fair stand.
   A bit of back story about why I do this because I know all you guys are wondering, why would an 18 year old girl be writing everything she has ever dreamed about? It's honestly super simple, but it's also (So I have been told) super sad. My mom left when I was 10 years old, the last time we spoke was on Valentine's Day (which ironically is my birthday) I hadn't seen my mom sense my 9th Christmas on this earth, even when I did see her though we never really spent time together. She was always on some kind of drug or drinking. I know why people take drugs and drink alcohol, (I've done so much research on it I could be a psychiatrist or something.) but it's a lot harder when it's the person who is supposed to love you and protect you from the world then when you read it online or in stories. I won't lie to you guys, it's a wound that I don't ever think will heal. I deal with the fact I wasn't enough for my mom to stay. The idea of having me in her life wasn't enough to make her go get help. It's a wound I burry so deep I almost forget about it, and when I do remember the way I felt I just remind my self she is the root of a lot of my trauma. This helps me get angry instead of gut wrenching-ly sad.
Sense you heard about my mom, lets talk about the other half of my DNA. My father. On the outside of the dollhouse it would seem we were a happy family, a single father with four kids. Two sons and two daughters. From the outside you could see they all had clothes on their back and just enough food to survive, you could see that the dad went to work everyday, the children went to school. You could see they came home to a run down beat up home with a chain fence with no dog, but the reality was I always had to take care of my siblings. That included my older brother who is just the most incompetent person I have ever met. My dad beat me black and blue and when he wasn't doing that he was destroying my mental health.
I never got to be a kid, I was an adult sense I was 6 years old. I had to take care of my siblings, feed them, clothes them. So instead of being crippled by my reality I made my own, by writing down my dreams and reading them before I fell asleep. As if I was pressing pause and play on a movie, I have been doing it for so long that my dreams seem to be it's own reality. I never stopped doing it. When I was 17 I packed all my stuff and moved out on my own. I worked 45 hours minimum a week at a fast food job I absolutely hated. Now I still work the same awful job, at your everyday McChiller's Burgers and Fries.