1977 - October 1977
"I feel like the
next big gust of wind that comes along will pick me up and blow me
it was about time I started a new journal. I don't really know what
was wrong with the last one ... bad vibrations or something. Or maybe
it was the pink
cover. Whatever it was, I simply didn't feel comfortable writing in it.
time will be different - I hope so. I like green, anyway ... a good
Psychology class this morning - hallelujah. The building caught on fire
something, and all classes were evacuated. I didn't see any smoke, but
security guards running around all over the place, and sirens in the
distance. Needless to
say I'm not a bit upset at the prospect of missing Psych. Came into the
cafe, "The Hotdog Hilton," to have a Coke and enjoy an hour quietly
the fire in Building 10 helped break up the morning.
reading "Sweet Hostage" by Nathaniel Benchley. Started last night
bed, read the first three chapters. I've never heard of the author but
I like his
style. Very readable. Good book.
bedroom - vacuum rug
dishes and straighten kitchen - damp mop floor?
and wash hair
Chapter 3 in Soc. book
to Dee Dee and Janie
feel comfortable with you, Journal ... I hope I can just
that feeling for the next 100 pages. I think one big problem with my
last journal - the
pink one - was that I wanted it to be a diary more than anything else.
was that my
life wasn't going anywhere, so I had nothing to write about. I
gradually lost interest in the whole thing, shoved the notebook into
the back of my closet
and forgot about it.
ledger is going to be very unorganized, probably quite disorderly at
times. When I feel like writing, I will, and it won't just be a boring
run-down of the day's activities. Anything I feel like writing is OK
... poetry, cartoons, bit & pieces of conversations, jokes,
letters, you name
WANT TO START TO REALLY LIVE!
how? and when?)
sit in my heart
(Written for Steve P.)
Like a penciled drawing.
There is still hope that someday
You may be erased.
run a little "experiment" now - smoke a little bit of the weed that
Scott gave me and see what it does for my creative powers. I've always
wondered if smoking weed would make poetry slip out of my head easier
-- think I'll give it a try.
see, I just smoked about four bowlsful, and I'm starting to get kinda
high. The high starts on the sides of your head, right above your ears
- a pressure, an almost leaden heaviness. Then your eyelids begin to
feel inordinately heavy, your lower back becomes numb, and you start to
think all kinds of strange things. It sounds terrible to anyone who's
never been high,
everybody - at one time or another - become as thoroughly disenchanted
with life as I have become? Is it normal to be so continuously
depressed and discouraged? Or am I abnormal, somehow? Is something
wrong with me? My life is going exactly nowhere, and the more
depressed I become about it, the worse
the situation gets. I feel like someone trapped in one of those tiny
rooms with shrinking
walls ... I struggle and push against the walls and fight to keep them
from crushing me,
but the harder I struggle, the faster they come at me.
morning when I was getting ready for school, I put an album on the
record player, and when the first song came on I felt a very small,
microscopic speck of hope deep down inside of me. Something about the
music - the beauty of it, simple and clean and untouched - made me feel
like maybe things could change and get better for me. If music could be
that beautiful and worth listening to, then maybe I should stay alive
to listen to it. Maybe that's what my life can be about ... listening
to and appreciating the music. But every time, no matter how wonderful
the music is, no matter how well it sweeps me
up and away from boredom and discouragement, the record player always
It has to. The arm lifts and takes the needle away, and when the needle
is gone the music
is gone. It's all reduced to nothing more than a circular hunk of black
wax and a lot
of tubes and wires and electricity. None of the magic remains - only
disillusionment. In a way the discouragement is even intensified when
the music is turned
back into silence and nothingness.
another problem with living solely for the music - it is always someone
music, not mine. There can't be any real satisfaction in living for
you didn't create yourself.
I know I
can be creative. I know I've got it somewhere inside of me, hidden away
somewhere. I know I could write poetry or novels, or paint, or play the
It's not that I'm incapable. It's just that I'm too bogged down by
frustration. Or maybe I'm too lazy. The incentive just isn't there
could sit here for hours, writing page after page of heartfelt feelings
... but what's the point, after all? Would somebody please tell me just
exactly what the point
would be?? No one is ever going to read this crap, for one
writing isn't DOING. It's not going to help things one single iota,
even if I
sit here for the rest of my cramped little existence and push this pen
across paper until
I collapse. Every minute I spend scribbling is time wasted.
to start doing things ... find some way to get myself free of the
room with the shrinking walls.
am trapped within this exitless room of shrinking walls
Frustrated by an intellect I cannot touch
And an ignorance that has me bound and gagged.
an exercise in wishful thinking. If I could change three things about
what would they be? Easy. First, I'd want financial security - money,
stuff, a job and a bank account. Secondly, I'd want independence.
maybe. I guess that comes down to a drivers license and a car to insure
the mobility, and
a place of my own for the independence. Money, mobility and
independence. The Big Three.
for wishful thinking. Where has it gotten me - another paragraph on a
deal. So I've defined what I want - so what? So what do I DO about it?
problem is that everything goes around and around in circles. Damn
there simply isn't any way of breaking free, is there? Unless I could
manage to make
a dent, a tiny one even. and break the hold this circle game has one
me. I can't
really get a job because I haven't got mobility ... I don't drive, and
though I'm now an expert at riding the bus, I'm still hampered. There
a lot of places I can't get to on the bus. I don't have a drivers
because I don't have a car to drive. I don't have a car to drive
don't have a job to pay for one. Without money or mobility,
I mean? The proverbial "vicious circle" has its hands on me.
I'm suffocating. Nothing seems possible.
But - if
you can stand it, because I can't - there's more. As long as it isn't more POETRY, OK?
Lots and lots and
lots more. So much more I can hardly stand it. Every time I think I've
define the tumultuous feelings and problems and needs inside of me into
a few simple,
clear-cut ideas, BAM! I suddenly remember that there are a hundred
education - religion - economics - political
is only when one person is ignorant of the fact that payback is
a system of socially-acquired and socially-transmitted standards of
beliefs and conduct as well as the material products of resulting
patterns of behavior.
change - cultural change
diffs from animals:
developed larger brain capacity to body weight than any other animal.
Developed upright posture - larger heads - consequently, humans born
(compared to animals) - more willing to learn
Opposable thumb - greater dexterity.
there's more, and there is.
I hate my
father - I think - which is a terrible thing to say, but if the feeling
is there I can't ignore and deny it. It has reached the point where I
can't even stand to be in the same room with him. Everything about him
irritates me ... I'd move out of the house in a
MINUTE if I had the means to support myself.
... there have been endless problems with Scott lately. We've been
going together for almost eleven months now, and although I love him
fiercely, intensely, I can't understand this thing that's happening
between us. I've been abnormally depressed lately - it seems like I'm
always tired and I'm always crying and my head never seems to stop
aching. That doesn't make me much fun to be around, I imagine, and if I
loved him the way I say I do, I'd take a
"leave of absence" for awhile ...
long enough to start straightening out all the SHIT in my life, without
continually clinging to him and expecting him to support me. It's not
fair of me to
be so dependent on his consolation, when he has problems enough of his
own to deal with.
I've been selfish, snapping at him unreasonably, expecting him to be a
stand-in father, an escape route.
I can find some kind of inner strength, I'll be strong enough to leave
him for awhile. Or maybe, simply quit expecting SO MUCH from him. I've
got to start
expecting more from ME. But how?
Later - another thought:
that I could afford a psychiatrist. I'm not insane, or depraved, or
anything as drastic as that, but I definitely feel that there's
inside of me - like a loose wire or a blown circuit, something that's
making me do
the things I do. I've never been this low before. Even during the good
times when things are smooth and lucid, I can feel the turmoil is still
away, churning and waiting to be released. It's like any minute some
could set it off.
OR THREE PAGES MISSING)
moron could read what I've written and tell me that the logical thing
would be to turn it all back over to God. In light of the way things
are, why not just hands the reins back over to Him?
indeed? Time to go to class.
(January 28, 1977)
time I've written in you at home,
Ledger. Quiet evening relaxing in
my room - scented candles burning, watching a little late-night TV. Got
a letter from
Karen today, which was a relief - I guess she's not mad at me for not
coming to see
her over Christmas. Dashed off a five page reply, filled with all the
latest local gossip.
Hope this means we're back in touch.
better frame of mind. Got to start taking my problems one step at a
care of some library fines today, helped Scott write the essay I
promised I'd help
him with, things are straightened out with Dad, and I put some money
back into my bank
account. There's still a TON of unsolved problems to deal with, but the
way I figure
it is I'm not going to be able to do anything realistic about them at
12:07 a.m., so
there's no point in brooding about them now, is there?
old ledgers tonite - last summer, primarily.
(January 29, 1977)
I are going out tonight, to a party at Greg Nelson's apartment. I'm sitting
here in my bedroom, waiting for him. Happy, relaxed. Think I'll forget
about "things" tonight and just let myself go. I've been so wound up
lately - it's high time I forgot about my problems for a while and just
enjoyed myself. He came over this afternoon - we went to
Burien to do some shopping for his sister's birthday, and then we had
lunch at Taco Time. After that we came to my house, sat in my room
watching TV, listening to records ... he
read some of my old journals.
(January 30, 1977)
much for "forgetting about things" and "letting myself go"
... last night was a total fiasco, and as a result Scott and I aren't
don't understand how it can be one thing after another like this. Just
I start to think I'm getting ahead, something always happens to turn my
down again. I really detest myself.
(January 31, 1977)
in the world that could be wrong, is.
started out fairly OK with
Scott this morning, but now he's started playing games with me ...
putting his arm
around me for a second and then taking it away with elaborate
haste ("Oh, I'm
sorry ... old habits
are hard to break"). I imagine he thinks he's going to emotionally
into submission. I'm torn in two because I just don't know what to do.
I have pride, and after all I wasn't the one to walk away on Saturday
night - HE
did. I don't want to break down and beg for one more chance, but
knowing spineless, gutless Terri,
that's what I'll probably be doing in two hours ... on my knees
in front of him, beaten into a pitiful lump of contrition, tears in my
eyes, voice cracking with
emotion, begging him to love me again. God damn it. Is it any wonder I
hate myself the
way I do?
everybody thinks about suicide at one point or another. Freddie Prinze,
the TV star, shot himself to death last weekend. My Aunt Jody's younger
brother, Dave, killed himself during his senior year. In Sociology
we've talked about suicide a lot. Tom Horton (the youth pastor at my
church) said once that when you're tempted to
commit suicide, it isn't that you want to die so much as wanting to
LIVING. When you think about it, that makes sense. Look at all the
people who make only
half-hearted attempts at doing away with themselves - they're probably
out for attention.
I have no
one to talk to. Sometimes I feel so lonely I can't stand it, holed up
night after night in my bedroom with just my TV to talk to. I would
give anything in the
world just for someone to talk to ... a friend, a girl pal, someone to
listen to the way I
feel. I have Dad, and Grandma Vert, and sometimes Kevin. I used to have
Scott. I have
pen pals, and I have you, Ledger. I suppose that's
more than a lot of people have, and
I should consider myself lucky. But why then am I so dried-up and
hollow inside? I feel
like the next big gust of wind that comes along will pick me up and
blow me away ...
stand when people - men - stare at me. It's really beginning to grate
on my nerves. You'd think they'd never seen a large-chested girl
can't seem to get away from the stares. They don't feed my ego anymore,
just tear at me and invade my privacy. Why can't they keep their eyes
would make good poem material, wouldn't it ... something about the eyes
following me everywhere I go. Hmmm...)
ever compared my life to a ferris wheel? ...
I are together again, and things are right once more in Terri V.'s
think I need to say anything more, do I?
school, sitting in the Hotdog Hilton with a Coke and a good book.
Kim's birthday (Scott's younger sister). I just bought her a card in
the bookstore. Flat broke or else I'd buy her a present - as it is, I
had to scrounge
a quarter from Scott to buy my Coke. I wish I had money.
to dislike school. I enjoy the campus, and I like to walk around and
the people, but I'm growing impatient with my classes and with the
I'm cutting classes more and more often. Restlessness, I suppose. I'm
well at all.
later. Finally finding time to scrawl a quick word. Sociology is just
starting, so there's no time nor privacy to write. Mid-term final next
finished work. Oops! I didn't tell you, did I, Journal? I finally got a
job last week. Yes, Terri V. is now, once again, part of the working
world, EMPLOYED. I'm working as a secretary/receptionist in the campus
dental clinic, 12-15 hours a week. This
didn't last very long, as I
recall ... I don't remember why, but I think I
simply stopped showing up after awhile.
March 21, 1977
over a month since I've written in this notebook, and in that month
a great many things have happened to me ... too many to describe in a
couple of pages or
so, and some too painful to write about at all. I feel like an entirely
... smaller, somehow, and less important, and less a part of the rest
of the world.
Externally things may appear to be fine, but internally I couldn't be
one bit more
depressed and sad. That's why I believe that most of the things that
have happened in
the past month are just as well unrecorded and forgotten, if that's
should just say "unrecorded" and leave it at that. They will NEVER be
Journal, it's me again ... !
the first day of Spring Quarter at college. After two weeks of long,
vacation, you'd better believe it was tough getting back into the swing
today. I almost DIED when I had to drag myself out of bed at 7 a.m. !!!
have three new classes, two of which are with Scott, and all three seem
they'll be OK. I'm taking Research & Persuasive Writing with
Health with Mr. Harrison, and "Rock Music: A Metamorphosis" with one of
neatest teachers I've had in a long time, Mr. Fish. Mr. Fish came into
five minutes late, wearing beat-up old jeans, an OSU sweatshirt and
sneakers, long graying
hair ... wordlessly put an album on the turntable and played music for
before he even said a word to the class. When he did finally speak, he
was dynamic and
exciting. I really like him, and I hope the class is as good as it's
started out to
I are picking at each other again, but I can't say I didn't expect
it. The one year anniversary is over, the Dr. Baumann episode is taken
care of (again), a
lot of the momentum is gone. But I refuse to be down about things
tonight!!! Tonight I
feel strong and decisive. I paid off the last of my debts today, and I
relieved. With one hurdle overcome, I can now begin to tackle the
others. I don't
exactly feel on top of my world, but at least I'm not down in the dumps
today, at least. Please, God, let me hold onto this feeling for a while
to watch the Academy Awards on TV, then clean my room, and then go to
bed. Easy day tomorrow.
Actor - Jason Robards, "All The President's Men"
Supporting Actress - Beatrice Straight, "Network"
Actress - Faye Dunaway, "Network"
Actor - Peter Finch (posthumously), "Network"
Picture - "Rocky"
Song - "Evergreen" (from "A Star
distracted happyhappyhappy I wish that I could share this with you all
on TV, trying to decide which book to read next ("Happy
Days" by Margaret Moore or "The Truth About Unicorns" by Bonnie Jones
Reynolds). I've been
reading like a person possessed lately - I find it a very pleasant and
relaxing diversion. I've been reading ever since I can remember, even
as a little girl. Can
remember Saturday morning at Grandma's, sitting under the hairdryer and
school library books. First grade. Can also remember family vacations
when I would spend
all my time sitting in the trailer or in the station wagon, reading the
pile of books
I'd brought along. Books have always been very special, private worlds
to me. C.S.
Lewis, Ruth M. Arthur, Nesbitt, Eager, Grimm, P.L. Travers ...
OK. Only one problem weighing heavily on my mind, which actually is a
from the usual five or six I have to wrestle with. Don't feel like
writing about it,
so maybe it's not that important. Just something about my job at
I write about?
uppermost in my thoughts?
is fine, but already falling into the same old boring pattern ... Jody
baby, a little girl that they named Kelli Ann St. John (the Kelli is
for Jody's best
friend, who I met at the shower - the Ann is for Ann St. John). Nobody
here in Seattle has
seen her yet, but Mom said that she's supposed to be tiny and delicate,
Jody's curly hair and Jerry's sweet baby face. I wonder if we'll ever
Wishing I had the money for some new clothes ... thinking about getting
cut ... it's getting middle-of-the-back long again, and although Scott
it's "beautiful," I'm sick of it. No one has long hair anymore ...
things on my mind. G'nite.
Will I go
out tonight, or won't I?
like it always depends on Scott.
April 12, 1977
Not much to write about - saw this ledger sitting in the drawer, so
I'd write something. Anything. My mind is just drifting along, each new
absorbed by the next, nothing important to think about. Life is
routine, routine, routine.
Each day barely differs from the rest. In love with Scott - or am I?
Same boring question.
Of course I am. Ridiculous to even question it. Wish I could lose a few
pounds, cut my
hair, buy some new clothes. Tired of looking the same, being the same,
talking the same
... reading the same books, watching the same TV shows. Need to find a
new purpose in
life, a new reason to get up in the morning. Nothing freaky or militant
or spur of the
moment. Maybe I should start writing or drawing again, or start dieting
And exercising. Or reading the newspaper every day.
Single Recording - "Blue Eyes Crying In The Rain," Willie Nelson
Recording - "Play That Funky Music," Wild Cherry
"You'll Never Find Another Love Like Mine," Lou Rawls
Single - "Don't Go Breakin My Heart," Elton John & Kiki Dee
Country Duo or Group - Conway Twitty & Loretta Lynn
Soul Group - Earth, Wind & Fire
Pop Rock Group - Chicago
Album - "Rhinestone Cowboy," Glen Campbell
Rock Album - "Eagles Greatest Hits" (other nominees: "Frampton Comes
Alive," Peter Frampton, and "Songs In The Key Of Life," Stevie Wonder)
Pop/Rock Vocalist - Olivia Newton John (other nominees: Helen Reddy and
New Artist (presented by The Beach Boys) - Starland Vocal Band (Boston,
Buzzard's Original Savannah Band, Bros. Johnson, Wild Cherry)
Vocal Performance - Ella Fitzgerald
Performance by R & B Group (presented by Peter Frampton) -
Marilyn McCoo &
Billy Davis Jr.
Wind & Fire, Wild Cherry, Spinners, K.C. & The Sunshine
Performance - Gary S. Paxton
Male Vocal - Stevie Wonder (Boz Scaggs, George Benson, Gordon
Lightfoot, Lou Rawls)
R & B Performance (presented by The Jackson 5) - Natalie Cole,
Instrumental - Chet Atkins & Les Paul
of the Year - "Songs In the Key of Life" , Stevie Wonder
This is one of my favorite
entries of all time
night; it is raining outside and I am tranquil. I have just taken a
long hot shower and am now sitting on my bed with the television
companionably low, in a clean nightgown with my hair wrapped in a damp
towel and a cigarette burning effortlessly in an ashtray on the bed
beside me. Things that normally bother me are not bothering me now ...
I have taken the telephone off the hook to avoid unwanted phone calls,
and I am safe in my solitude.
can't it always be like this?
someday it will
be ... maybe someday I'll have a place of my own where I can
sit and think and read and listen to music and not worry about things;
a place far away
from Dad's incessant cynicism and dogs barking and dirty clothes
scattered in the
kitchen. Maybe, when I am alone in my own place, I'll be sitting on my
to the rain falling outside my window, with a towel wrapped around my
head and the clean
pungent smell of soap and night cream and toothpaste everywhere,
everywhere, and I'll
be reading this page and remembering ...
this journal in January - nearly four months ago - and I've only filled
handful of pages with scattered thoughts and random entries. I must be
losing my touch.
There was a time, once, when my journal was a nearly constant
companion, with pages
filled every day. Now look ... nothing but unimportant, trivial little
paragraphs that all
say essentially the same thing: I am bored with my life, and I am
aren't going "on schedule." By this time in my life, 19-almost-20 (my
... TWENTY!), I should be working in an office somewhere, driving
around town in my own
car, dating sixteen different men, turning down marriage proposals,
scouting around for an
apartment, putting sets of dishes and linens into a hope chest. I
should be tall and
svelte, with a head-turning figure, charming and poised and articulate;
I should have
stories printed in magazines, or be collecting my first rejection
slips, and subscribe to
"Vogue" and "Glamour," and wear brown nail polish and tailored
pantsuits and short hair. Instead, I have no job and not car, am still
dating one person,
have yet to receive my first marriage proposal, live at home under the
protective thumb of
my father, collect records and birthday cards; I am not tall, svelte,
charming, poised OR
articulate; I bite my nails, wear jeans and T-shirts to school, and
Life" magazine. Some life, huh?
And I am
scared. Of what, I'm not sure, but the fear is there. I feel it growing
inside of me when I wake up in the middle of the night - this nameless,
deep within. Fear of growing up? Fear of NOT growing up? Fear of what I
am - of all the
terrible parts of me that I keep hidden? Whatever it is I fear, it is
making me terribly
uncomfortable with myself ...
tonight. Tonight I am going to read a book until the early
hours of the morning, and sip my diet cola, and pretend that everything
is the way it
should be ... and maybe tonight, it is. Maybe just for tonight, I am
exactly where and who
I should be.
IS ... Creative but lazy
Intelligent but unmotivated
Empathetic but too sensitive
Aware but emotionally immature
letters to Robin, Dee Dee and Rudy but don't feel like writing!
About this time I indulged in a
brief, red-hot affair with my boyfriend Scott's best friend,
Jerry. After a few weeks Jerry and
I broke things off: when Scott and I reconciled, I went back
and edited this journal, deleting almost all references to my
"indiscretion." 3/4 of the pages in this notebook are simply
June 12, 1977
Ledger ... so many things have happened in my life during this past
month. I have
no idea how I'm going to be able to tell you about it all without
afternoon. Woke up this morning without a hangover for a change of
pace. I've been drinking like CRAZY lately ... averaging two fifths per
week ... but I've abstained this weekend, more for the sake of my bank
account than my liver. Booze is too damned expensive.
in my room, listening to the radio on the stereo. Dad is making potato
the kitchen, but I am so immersed in my own thots & worries
that I just want to hide
here in my room and avoid him. Trying to figure out how to begin
telling you about all the
changes. Trying to get the courage to call Jerry and beg to see him
tonite. He and I
really, desperately need to sit down together and have a long,
heart-to-heart talk. Things
have been so screwy between him and me these past few days. We went to
a drive-in on
Wednesday night ("The Sting" and "The Other Side of the Mountain") and
had a lot of fun ... UNTIL he started pulling that same old shit about
how it would be a
good idea if we "wait awhile" before we go out again. What the hell is
supposed to mean? How long is "a while"? A couple days? A week? Two? A
forgot to be too explicit about that one, and it has me all up in the
this whole goddamned mess has me up in the air.
want it to happen this way. I mean, I know that Scott still loves me
frantically, and that this whole thing with Jerry is tearing him apart.
I can see what
it's doing to him. But for some reason, I began to feel very strongly
Jerry, and my feelings started taking over. We started going out behind
and somehow everything has snowballed
birthday. I was still in the doghouse with him over the whole
to have a strawberry Pop-Tart and a giant glass of
milk!!!! Or I'll die!!
I are going out to dinner in an hour. I wonder if I'll be able to keep
my big mouth shut and resist the temptation to give him the bad
written on this momentous occasion
of blue eyes
tucked away in hiding
where there is no dissension
only dark and beating heart ...
stars are leaning heavy-hearted
perhaps they know they must be parted
July 18, 1977
didn't call all day or evening AGAIN. Second time within a few days. So
here I sit in my lonely little bedroom watching TV, eating a box of
and sipping a Pepsi, coming down off a high and trying to convince
myself I want to stay
up until 12:30 and watch David Niven in "Stairway to Heaven."
bored, bored, bored, bored.
July 21, 1977
hell is my diary?
old journals always makes me feel like sitting down and writing a few
Seems as though it's always so much more interesting to read a couple
of years later
- even when it feels dull as dishwater at the time I'm writing it.
Larkin will probably be elected Seattle's next mayor. (In my father's handwriting: "WRONG!
IT WAS CHARLES ROYER!" I must have left my journal sitting out where he
could see it.) Raining
outside. I got my
curtains up yesterday, and then today I spent several hours thoroughly
straightening, so my room looks neat and cozy and comfortable. I took a
shower and washed
my hair (so I'll look OK for my trip to Sears tomorrow) ... am now
sitting on my bed
watching "The Best of All In The Family" and sipping a Pepsi Light on
Dad would go to bed so I could smoke my joint.
Monday afternoon 12:22 p.m.
September 19, 1977
I did such a good job of housecleaning yesterday that there's
practically nothing to do today. Went to Burien after my trip to Sears
- got some new
sweaters (it's about time!!!). God, I wish I could get that job at
Sears!! I could really
use the money, and I wouldn't mind putting school off for a quarter or
two if it
meant working fulltime and making enough money to buy a car. I've just
thinking positively about getting on & maybe the "good vibes"
just called from the courthouse downtown - today is his first day of
and he says he's "bored." Said there's nothing to do but read
magazines and play solitaire and smoke. Poor baby. If he wants to know
what boredom REALLY
is he should sit around this house for an afternoon.
Horton has been allowed to see Marlena/Samantha - "Days of Our Lives")
to do, nothing to do, nothing to do. No energy, no motivation.
The Family" re-run on TV ... Mike and Archie have just had their
millionth fight ("Michael, please apologize to Daddy for giving God the
raspberry!"). Wonder what Scott is doing down at the courthouse. Wonder
thinking about me at all.
Carroll O'Conner, Jean Stapleton, Rob Reiner, Sally Struthers
made with sour cream!
about smoking a joint, but I don't have much weed left and I'm not
sure I should.
September 24, 1977
Saturday afternoon since school started again ... it feels
good. Feels like fall, crisp and clear
and cold, birds chattering in the trees. I love fall - it's my favorite
year. Scott and Jerry came over on bikes a little while ago and smoked
some of my
dope, so now I'm quite high and everything is moving in slow motion,
including my brain
and my hand holding the pen. Feels nice, but always makes me so damn
awhile. Strains of the space horns from "Little Neutrino" running
head. Think I'll put on some music ... the "B" side of Alan Parsons
Project. Seldom listen to this. Underneath the high, I'm a little angry
for the offhand, casual way he's been treating me lately, sort of
taking me for
granted again. Unless we're "being romantic," he seems to just forget
loves me. No matter what I say or do, it's not good enough for him.
(A LOT OF PAGES
... there were arguments and fighting and yelling. If there were, I
them. My earliest conscious memory of my mother was when I was two or
three, and she was
putting me down for an afternoon nap. I was throwing a tantrum and Mama
was angry with me.
Another early memory of Mama was Christmas Eve when I was three. She
was dressing me to go
to Grandma and Grandpa's and we couldn't find one of my shoes. She was
that time, too, and I ended up going to my grandparents' with only one
shoe on. I
have a picture of that night; Mama is holding me, and there I am with
one bare foot.
earliest memories of Daddy are a lot clearer. I think I worshipped him,
so that must
be why this is so. I can remember taking a shower with Daddy once, but
the only impression
that comes from that memory is that I was short and he was tall. I can
also remember Daddy
making pancakes shaped like teddy bears. I don't know where Mama was
but I was very happy that Daddy was fixing my breakfast.
one memory that I'm not sure of, and lately I've begun to think it was
probably a dream - a dream that was so nice and pleasant that I wanted
it to be true and later began to believe it had actually happened. It
was a snowy
Dad's birthday. 42 or 43, I'm not sure. Maybe 44. Which, of course, I thought was
Anyway, Scott took me shopping after school to pick up a couple of
birthday gifts, a sweatshirt and a mug-decorating kit.
October 8, 1977
clean my room, but as usual I haven't an ounce of energy in my body
not even enough to light a cigarette or make my bed. I feel drained and
lazy and limp,
like a Raggedy Ann doll propped on a rumpled bed. Oh well, big deal.
What would it hurt to
accomplish nothing today? Dad is home so I can't really do any
housework anyway, and
there's an abundance of good movies on TV this afternoon. Sure, my room
looks like a
hurricane struck in the night ... sure, my hair is dirty ... sure, I
have homework ... but
why not just sit back and let it all hang out for one day? I'm not
going out with
Scott tonite - Scott promised to help John move some equipment tonight
- but I have some
beer left over from last night and some Columbian, so I'll get high and
realize that Scott and I have been together for NINETEEN MONTHS??
ever be Mrs. Terri S.?
I feel OK
!! I'm alive
! I'm living in Seattle in 1977 and it feels great !
in your shell ‘coz the world is out to bleed you for a ride.
What will you gain making your life a little longer?
Heaven or Hell, was the journey cold that gave you eyes of steel?
Shelter behind painting your mind and playing joker.
You're waiting for someone to understand you
But you've got demons in your closet
And you're screaming out to stop it
Saying life's begun to cheat you
Friends are out to beat you
Grab on to what you can scramble for ...
called and asked me out for tonite, but I really don't want to do
anything but sit home and get high. I've only got enough weed for one
small joint and
maybe two bowls, so I guess I'll save it for later in the evening. Wish
I had more.
I'd like to get super-high tonite but with such a tiny stash I probably
Well, I guess it's better than having none at all, isn't it?
night. Songs written about it, people dragging thru the week looking
to is, and what is it? Just another night of the week. No big deal, is
October 9, 1977
know that October is my favorite month? No, wait - December is my
because of Christmas and my birthday and all - but October is my
not sure why, exactly. Something about the way the air feels in
October. Fall ... crisp,
clean, cold, autumnal. Leaves turning and falling, pumpkins for sale,
candy in the stores. Sometimes I think that fall should come at the
beginning of the year,
because in spite of (or because of) things dying & winter
coming, I feel more alive
now than I EVER do in January. I always feel like something good is
going to happen in the
fall, and a lot of the time I'm right.
I went to the Swap-Meet today to add some 45's to our collections.
pleasant day. Later in the afternoon we went to his house and got high
on his Columbian.
He said that last night he ate some mushrooms and had a very nice,
visual-trip kind of
high. Sounds good, doesn't it? I want to try them sometime, even though
I have this
aversion about eating raw mushrooms. I always enjoy visual highs.
really feel like doing my Writing homework, and I don't feel like
listening to Mrs. Harrington ramble on and on about things I haven't
interest in. Damn. Why does this have to happen every quarter?? I begin
the term feeling
fresh and alive and ready to really buckle down and pay attention in
class and study every
night and amaze everyone by getting straight A's. But then after a week
something happens to diminish that excited interest in school. I can't
put my finger
on what starts it. I skip a class once or twice, stop reading the
assignments, skip a quiz
here and there ... the next thing I know I haven't been to class in two
weeks and I
can't go back because I'm too far behind. I end up with an F on my
and I feel guiltier than all hell for blowing time & money that
CAN'T seem to get interested in "An Anthology of Russian Literature in
the Soviet Period, From Gorki to Pasternak."
something I want to talk to you about, Journal, and that's the dreams
I've been having lately ... dreams that I'm with other guys besides
Scott. Mostly I keep dreaming that Jerry is trying to get back together
with me. The plots are indistinct, but he's usually holding me or
kissing me, and I feel very good and very happy. At other times it
starts out to be Jerry but turns into someone else, like Phil. I dream
about Phil a lot too. And sometimes I dream about someone different,
someone who has never been anything special to me ... Pat W. last
night, John M. the other night. In those dreams I'm always being held
or kissed by this person, and I feel very good about it. I wake up
happy. In these dreams I seem to have forgotten all about Scott because
I never think of him
at all until I wake up. All my attention is focused on this other
Now, in a
way I can understand dreaming about Jerry. Our ill-fated romance last
spring never reached any final conclusion ... it just sort of fell off
abruptly, leaving a lot of unspoken words and hurt feelings between us.
We never said, "Things aren't
working out so maybe we should end this relationship."
All of a sudden he just stopped calling, and I started seeing Scott
again, and it was over, just like that. Like someone had taken a pair
of scissors and cut the two of us apart. I probably dream about him in
an effort to create a conclusion to a relationship that never really
had one. We hadn't started
bandying about the
term "closure" yet, but that's what I was looking for: closure.
- well, Phil was something else. Of all the failed relationships in my
(and there have been many, believe me), Phil is the one I regret the
most. For the rest of
my life I'll be sorry that I didn't hold onto Phil. I've written pages
pages about him, about all the things he has been to me and all the
things he is, so I
won't use a lot of ink rehashing it all now. He is special - that One
comes along in a lifetime - and I blew it. What more can I say?
misunderstand. I love Scott, I do. We call each other "Sweetheart,"
more out of habit now I suppose than anything, but "Sweetheart" fits
him. He is just that - my Sweetheart, my lover, my best friend. If the
opportunity to get back together with Phil arose tomorrow, I
wouldn't. But still every night I escape into the dangerous,
forbidden world of my dreams, where
my subconscious plays out fantasies I wouldn't dare consider while
don't feel guilty about it ... just confused. Why don't I ever dream
Scott? What am I trying to tell myself?
rotten Journal this has been! Interesting things
have happened - I had a brief "thing" with my boyfriend's
best friend, for instance - but I didn't write
anything about them because I was too paranoid
that someone would read what I'd written and get "mad." How dumb. So as
result, my account of the past nine months has been sketchy, inaccurate
to change all that with my next journal.
what's funny in a way? Both of the guys I was writing to you about this
morning, Jerry and Phil - I ran into both of them shortly after I'd
them. Jerry, of course, is nothing unusual, since I ride to and from
school with him every
single day. But because of what I'd just written, the every-day
encounter took on a
different feeling for me. Scott and I both sit in the front seat of
Jerry's car, with
me in the middle, so I sit very close to him. All during the ride home
I kept thinking
about the way we used to feel about each other. Not with longing or
regret, really, but
sort of the way a scientist looks at a specimen ... with a scientific
detachment. I just
thought it was interesting that this person sitting next to me had, at
one time, told me
loved me, and now could barely think of anything to say to me. I know
he must be really
uncomfortable around me, especially when Scott is there. I'd love to
read his mind
and find out what he's really thinking ... if he remembers the same
things I do.
- he walked right past me after class, while I was standing there
Scott and Pat. I watched him walking past and again
I was thinking, "That person
told me he loved me once." It's
such an eerie feeling ... like it
happened in a different lifetime or something.
guys have told me they loved me, it really makes me wonder if they even
knew what they were saying at the time. Clarence was the first, and I
was willing to be believe it because I wanted to be in love. I'd never
had the experience before and I was eager to know what being in love
felt like. I wouldn't have gotten involved sexually with him if I
didn't believe he loved me. Who was it who said "The magic of our first
love is the ignorance that it can ever end" -
Disraeli? Phil loved me. I know he did. I think
maybe Steve did, in his selfish way. The
others - Cray, Dane, Jerry, among others - maybe
they did, but somehow I doubt it. If they
did, then love is very transitory indeed.
Dad did all the housework - my room is clean - what can I do with all
time I've accumulated? Homework? Yuck!
dropped by unexpectedly. We went driving around in his van and smoke
with his new dashboard pipe and got a little high, but then we got into
argument here in my room and he got up and stormed out in a huff. I
swear to God, he can
make me so damned mad! Entirely self-engrossed, he refuses to look at
argument but his own.
tired of being judged all the time - of feeling that I'm up
on some platform competing for a blue ribbon. "You're getting to be the
way with weed that you were with alcohol," he said. "Why do
you always have to have
a crutch?" What a really sweet thing to say. I'm
not kidding, I'm REALLY getting tired of it. He must have a
else do you explain his innate need to be somebody's mother hen
sounds rather incongruous after what I'd written about him being a
"Sweetheart," but even Sweethearts have flaws. Big flaws. SCOTT
S. IS A MOTHER HEN (sometimes)
terrible. Mad. Cold. Tired. Depressed. Overwhelmed by the banality of
he think he is, really? Ordering me around, putting me down, condemning
should be very reassuring to know that someone is concerned about the
way I conduct myself
at all times - but somehow it ISN'T.
called last night at a little past eight to tell me he loves me - which
as close to an apology as I ever get, but that's OK. So I got over my
This morning Jerry got us all high on some Columbian, and since I took
a diet pill this
morning, I've got kind of a "buzzy" high going. I know it's dumb
getting high before school - I have problems concentrating even when
and when I'm stoned it's ten times worse. ("Muffin!") Don't
really know why I do it. I can't remember my dreams last night, so I
if I dreamed about Jerry or Phil or anyone. I've read that everyone
night, whether they remember it or not, so I may have.
so many stories I need to tell. Who will listen? Will you?
have stories to tell and songs to sing
of my stories have beginnings and endings, isolated little pieces of my
are separate from everything else. My Golden Summers of 71, 72, 75. The
Bus Caravan to
California. November 1974, the bleakest month of my life. Gary H., a
friend who died
at 17 in a shoot-out with the police. That moonlit night on mescaline
with Alan W.
Steve P., the great love of my life. Christmas Eve 1975. Camp Firwood
with Tom and Kerry and George. The night
the ambulance came and took my grandma away. The first date from hell.
My first kiss.
Becoming a Christian at the ocean. New Vision. My friendship with
Karen. So many more,
hundreds of memories ...
a new journal today and I was super-tempted to scrap this one and start
the new one; but I decided to be thorough and WAIT until this one is
finished, for a change.
(But then the journal ends
ANYWAY ... )
to throw a rock?