What they told me
Sometimes I am afraid about what is going to happen to me. I've always thought I was relatively smart. If I sat across from me, I could hold an intelligent conversation. This has waxed and waned, but I'm fairly sure of it. As sure as I ever am - I'm as smart as I'd like to be. I'm as capable of holding knowledge as I need to be. I'm hard on myself, so I guess it counts for something that I can say that. Maybe I'm being arrogant, but it's better than being self deprecatory or self hateful.
I am afraid, though. Every now and then, I'm paralyzed with fear. I'm not going to be safe when I grow up. I'm going to be alone. Somedays I only want physical comfort. I'm tired of "such a braniac amore." I want someone to touch me, and brush my hair. I don't care about sex, I just want comfort. I want someone to want me. I want to be desired, and lusted after. Oh, isn't this a conundrum?
I think I'm capable of being intelligent. I wonder, though, if I'm capable of being loved. I'm afraid that no one will find me attractive when I'm older, no one will think that I am beautiful, no one will want to sleep in my bed. All of a sudden, I am terrified of this. I'm afraid of being lonely. This is something I've always prided myself on not being afraid of.
This is laughable. If I were reading it, I would laugh at it. I've always despised thought like this in other people. And yet here I am; whining and sounding needy and lonely. I guess, in context, it makes some more sense. I always boil this argument down to stark contrast, but sometimes I need to do that. I've spent so much time being cerebral and physically cold and now (all of a sudden) I'm tired of it. Why do I say "I want to be wanted." I've always been the first one to talk about how much a fish needs a bicycle. About how "I am enough for myself." And hell - I thought it was true. It probably is true.
Maybe I'm beginning to think that it's as important for me to be intelligent and logical as it is for me to be irrational and out of my head. I praise each part of myself depending on where I am in my life. I used to work hard to scare off people. I used to read books upside down so that no one would bother me much, or so that people would gossip about how strange I was. For a while, in high school, I longed to be calm and reserved instead of fiery and passionate. I wanted to think before I spoke. I held ration above all other qualities. Back and forth for years now; I can't make up which I value more - passion or ration.
I want some of each. I want to be loved, I want to be held, and I want to be revered for being intelligent. Why do I feel like a walking talking stereotype right now? Jesus, these are issues every single girl on the planet has. Do I think that I'm something unique just because I'm neurotic about appearance vs. intelligence all of a sudden? No, but it is different for me. It's never been something I've been concerned with before.
(My, this is a whiny entry.)
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I have a few principles. I'm trying to convince myself of that. I am growing up. I am trying to convince myself of that as well.
"So, let me see your grades, Margaret," he said. Not "When are you going to let me see your grades?" He demanded them of me. I was curious if he was going to forget or not. Sometimes he has forgotten about my grades. I had been planning this for a while now, and I was sure it was going to end in some anticlimactic drivel. No - he demanded to see my grades and I refused.
"I'm not going to show them to you." I could hear his fury. He was trying hard to hide it. I stared at him. I smiled slightly, ambiguously. In a month, my face has changed. My cheeks dimple, and there are wrinkles under my eyes from smiling. It's looser, and easier, and it's not as cold as it was. It frightens my father.
I did a terrible job during the argument. Had I been able to type and see what I was saying, I would have had an easier time proving my point. Instead I stared at him, and made false moves.
"Mom said I didn't have to show you my grades," I said.
"She didn't tell me that." He gritted his teeth.
I smiled again. I knew that I had made a mistake, though. why don't you just cling to your mother's skirt I try to prove my independence, and then go straight to my mother whimpering for help.
"I shared everything with my parents when I was growing up. How dare you do this?"
How dare I? How dare I not? Now that I sit here in the public library and think about the things he said, I understand why he's upset. It doesn't change the fact that he's wrong, but I do understand. He's afraid that I'm not going to be his daughter anymore. And if he isn't careful, he's goddamn right to be afraid. I know he's done much for me and I'm grateful for that. "He's fed you even though you don't even eat with him anymore," said Mike. Mike's words made my stomach drop. I felt guilty. Horribly guilty. It's a matter of principle, though, and that's all it is. And it's a matter of control and power.
First off, my grades don't matter any more. There's no more time for them to improve. It doesn't matter any more. What could he say if he looked at the D I got on my physics exam (the only D on the report card, mind you)? "Better bring that up next term"? Why in hell would he say that? These are the last grades my colleges will see, and I'm proud of them. I'd be proud of them even if I hadn't been depressed for two months. The fact that I was depressed and pulled off A's and B's is remarkable. He's acted as though I forfeited my sympathy, or never deserved any in the first place. I don't often indulge in self pity, but I do know that I was a wreck for two months. It's a marvel that I'm a functioning human being right now. I don't think he realizes what a mess I was. Or maybe he just doesn't realize how to deal with it.
Maybe I've just sold my soul. I'm being cold hearted, clear headed, and ruthless. My father said "Rebellion is not a sign of growing up." I'll agree that rebellion without justification - rebellion for the sake of rebellion - is not a sign of growing up. I've always been obedient though. My father's gotten used to intimidating me, scaring me, having me do what he wanted me to do. And now that he's being dethroned, he doesn't know how to react. So he calls me immature, he says "Your stare doesn't frighten me."
He can get my grades if he wants. He can call the guidance counselor, do whatever he wants. They're obviously not the issue. Hell, here they are: UCONN English - 86, Calculus - 87, Advanced Physics - 80, Western Civ. - 86, Latin 4 - 93, Recreational activities - 88. For a depressed, nervous wreck, I did damn well. And I won't give him my report card.
I realized I stopped making sense a long time ago. I'm frustrated that I'm arguing better (if you think this is convoluted, you should've heard me...) in writing than I could in person. Once again, I've become a walking talking stereotype. Introverted young American girl (raised on promises). A half hearted art maverick. Can't decide whether it's better to be cerebral or a madwoman. Domineering, unreasonable father.
It's text. It's pixels. It's flat. I boil it all down. The contrasts show, I guess, and I think that's an interesting . You lose the complexities, I become a stereotype. It happens. I can't help it, try as I might. (My entries have been so long, I wouldn't be surprised if no one but me reads them.)
Oh, and update: I have internet access at home. Although, after this last spit with my father it could be taken away again. Foolish of him. Human of him. Bruise his ego, he takes away means of communication. It's not hard to find internet though. (also, if you'd like to be sure of reaching me, you can email me at [email protected] which is web based as opposed to my Wesleyan address.)
He says "We'll have a talk about what it means to be an adult." I'm beginning to think that a large part of being an adult means not being afraid of him. Not being bullied by him. Recognizing that he's human. Keeping some control. I'll listen to him, calmly and rationally and with a smile. I will not show him my grades.
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I'm starving. I'm all alone. I'm at home, and I feel haunted and hunted.
2000-02-05, Grades are warfare.
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