This picture was taken December 2, 2000,
at Chuck-O-Rama after my two-night mountain survival. The fam in town
went to eat there after I was released from the hospital (my family's all
about all-you-can-eat buffets - if we ever go out to eat, that is).
My mom and my brother S (with his wife and daughter) met us there.
(Mom flew in from Oregon and S came all the way from Florida.) When
Mom saw me, of course she started crying. The thing was, after I came
off the mountain I was very much pulled inside myself and didn't want anything
to do with my family, especially my parents. But how could I tell them
all "No, you can't hug me. You've fasted and prayed for me this whole
time, worried about me, cried for me, lied awake thinking about me, but I
don't want anything to do with you. Thanks for your help but leave
me alone." Yeah, right. So of course I let them all hug me, even
though I hated it. 
The thing with this picture was that I did not want to see Mom - at all. When she walked in and started crying, I wanted to run. She hugged me tightly and I let her, although I was shaking inside and screaming "GET AWAY FROM ME!!!" I was scared as h___, but you can't tell from this picture. I'm a pretty good actor, huh?
When I look at this picture I shake with anger and confusion and fear. I hate her. I want to hurt her. I don't understand my feelings. Sometimes I look at the picture and I'm just sad.
The following Monday--two days later--Dad drove down from Oregon. I especially did not want to see him. He hugged me tightly; probably kissed me on the cheek. I hate his smell; how he holds me so tightly and won't let me go; his nasty, foul kisses. D___ you; get away from me.
That Christmas, just about everybody came to Utah. G's house is the natural gathering spot; it's the biggest (she married a doctor).
At one point I was sitting sideways on one of the couches in the living room with a blanket over me. Dad came up to me and rubbed my feet, making some comment about the mountain. I cannot even describe to you how repulsed I was by his touch. I hated him. I hated myself for letting him touch me. I loathed my feet because Dad had touched them; I wanted to cut them off. I really wanted to cut them off. I shook inside with disgust and repulsion and hate and anger. D___ you. Get away from me.
I was very angry that Christmas. I avoided Dad as much I could, playing network computer games with GT downstairs, even though I didn't really want to play that much. Dad criticized me for not being with the family. Screw him. If I wasn't glued to the computer, I'd have to face the real world. That meant having to endure Dad's foul presence. I couldn't handle it; so I ran (figuratively speaking). Dad's criticism made me avoid the family even more, to spite him. Screw you, bastard.
Once when I was upstairs I got so mad I had to leave the house; I was afraid I'd hurt someone or something. I wanted to so badly. I was so incredibly angry. I didn't know what to do with my anger. I didn't know how to express it. I was afraid of losing control; I was so close to the edge.
It was mostly a crappy Christmas. The gag gifts in my stocking were humorous, though (hand warmers, flares, wool socks). I also got my teddy bear that Christmas. I try to forget that it came from Mom (Santa).
I love my teddy bear. I find it interesting, though, that every stuffed animal I've ever had in my life has been a boy to me. If it was made to be a girl, I'd cut the ribbon off or change something so it would be a boy. I also find it interesting that I've never named my stuffed animals. What I call them depends on the mood I'm in and what role they take.
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Dad. Bastard. I can't think of him without loathing some part or all of him. I have many names for him, although none are in any way original. I don't know how to express how much I hate him.
I've written in my journal some things I wanted to do to him, or be done to him. I don't want him to die; I want him to suffer. Actually, I do want him to die, but slowly, painfully. And I want him to know it was me. I want him to know I was the cause of it, or the one who had someone else do it to him. The son of a b____ needs to pay.
