Draft letter, 1992

I’m probably going to deny that I wrote this, just to let you know straight out (this wouldn’t fit in with my image of myself).  But I wanted to thank you for whatever it is you’ve done to help me, for putting up with my constant abuse, and for making me feel less scummy.  And I had fun, too, which according to you is okay, so I’ll trust you on that one.  I guess I do like you after all, and I will miss talking to you (kind of).  (It’d be too much to admit that I’ll miss you, so I won’t.)  Thanks for the water gun and for the bell that chased the evil spirits away while I was here.  And for the safe “connection,” which does mean a lot.

Haunted

Diary entry, April 24, 2004

I had a dream last night where I rescued a little boy.  He was very special and he knew important things, so this particular group was out to get him.  I snatched him from them, then took him to all of the places he needed to go to in order to get the information he needed--the nasty group hot on our trail the entire time.

At one point I bust us out of a building owned by the nasty group; we stole a gold convertible and drove it into St. Paul, where we kept missing buses to the train station while I found food for the boy.  There was someone else with us who kept freaking out, but I seemed fairly calm, and the boy, very cute and remarkably cheerful, all things considered.  He was smiling the entire time and he had beautiful eyes.  We just never gave up.  We kept moving.

The Locked Door

Madness, March 22, 1990

Sometimes I am lost,

wandering around my

mind.

And the madness that

touches me,

touches you,

too.

It beats me inside,

it makes me swallow

what I should

release—

but it beats me inside,

I have to swallow

or I will

choke.

It follows me,

but it can run so

much faster.

It can run so much

faster...

School essay, January 10, 1989

From When I Was Twelve

With such a beautiful family history, it’s not surprising I was afraid of turning out mentally scarred for life.  I was so nervous about it that I stopped seeing a psychologist and wouldn’t talk to my mom about any of her support groups or anything.  I didn’t want to have anything to do with it.  Now I know I was just scared of going through what my mom did, but I know I never will.  I mean, parts of it weren’t so swell, but I’d still say I had a better than average childhood.

Secrets