JOURNAL NO. 21
October 1977 - January 1978
Age 19 & 20

" ... My life is going to begin to move,
and I have a feeling that it's going to happen soon."




 




Wednesday afternoon

October 12, 1977

Home from school, and suffering from my daily case of the "What shall I do to pass the time?" blahs. The house is clean, Al Stewart's "Past, Present & Future" is on the stereo. A batch of chocolate chip cookies is baking in the oven, and a load of clothes is spinning in the dryer.

I should be happy, I know. There will probably come a time when I look back on these lazy afternoons and wish I could re-live them.

But I'm not happy. It's nothing I can put my finger on   ...  just a vague loneliness and boredom. There's nothing interesting to do. I feel like a little kid during summer vacation, whining to Mommy that there's "nothing to doooo!"   Oh yes, I could do the ironing, or read my Lit homework, or vacuum the rug. If you're talking about trivial non-essential ways to pass the time, I can think of a hundred of them. I could write the letters I owe to Rudy, Robin or Dee Dee ... I could scour the bathtub ... I could hem my new jeans ...






Friday morning

October 14, 1977

If I had any sense at all I would be sitting in my World Lit class right now, instead of hiding here in the reference section of the brand-new library. Why do I keep skipping class??  At least I could be doing some homework while I sit here ... but no, here I am, scribbling meaningless banalities in an orange notebook. Quite a student, aren't I? Disciplined, conscientious, hard-working. Hah.

At least I feel GOOD today. My horoscope and my biorhythm say this should be a peak day. That would be a nice change.

Think I'll go to the Hilton and have a Coke and a smoke.

Cyrill dies at a baseball game. Small boy w/his snob parents. 2 teenage boys. 2 middle aged men. One old lady. Diff. reactions: Staring. Getting up and moving. Stealing his wallet. Hysteria. Nausea. Trying to help. Ignoring him.







Monday night

October 18, 1977

I saw my new cousin, Kelli Ann St. John, tonite for the very first time and I thought it would be interesting to write down my very first impressions of her. Sometime in the future when she is grown & a long-established part of my life, I can read what I've written here and see if my impressions were accurate.

Scott and I drove over to Grandma St. John's around 6:30. Jody brought the baby up for a couple of days, leaving Jerry at home. We walked into Grandma's house and were immediately admonished to "be quiet, the baby's asleep!" I was disappointed at first because I was dying to see her, but Jody said she would probably wake up soon. In the meantime I looked at some pictures of her, and I was immediately struck by her incredibly big brown eyes. Gorgeous eyes, with long, thick black lashes. I tiptoed into Grandma's room and took a peek at Kelli Ann, laying fast asleep in the playpen. The room was dark and she was laying on her tummy, covered partially by a blanket, but I could see that she's tiny - like Jody - and that she has a crop of short black hair. She looked beautiful.

When she woke up and Jody brought her out to the kitchen, the first thing she did was look right at Scott and I and smile the goofiest baby smile. I think I fell in love that minute. She never stopped smiling the whole time her Mom held her, and she waved her hands at Grandma and me, wobbling her head and grinning in delight at everything. Her eyes are even bigger and darker in person, and she is tiny, although Jody says she's "getting chubby around the thighs." She squirmed around in Jody's lap, trying to crawl onto the kitchen table, reaching and grabbing for everything in sight. Jody says she's already outgrown her carseat, and that she wiggled out of it several times during the trip to Seattle. She was especially taken with a chiming owl mobile hanging above the table, and she tried to stand up on Jody's lap and grab it.

The only time she fussed was when Jody handed her to me. Her little face puckered up and she let out a howl. The minute she was back in her Mama's lap she was all smiles again. Grandma said I shouldn't feel bad - Kelli won't even let Grandma hold her.

She's standing up already (with help) and she just cut her first tooth. She's eight months old and will probably be gigantic the next time I see her.

To this day  --  even now that she's a big grown-up married lady with children of her own  --  my cousin Kelli is one of my favorite people on the planet.  (And gosh I miss her mom.)








Tuesday morning

I don't feel very good and I don't know why. Maybe I'm about to come down with something. Whatever it is, I feel restless and uneasy and a little cranky. I don't feel like sitting here in the Hilton reading ... I don't feel like going to class ... I don't feel like going to the library. I don't feel like writing and I don't feel like reading. I'm not in the mood for anything and it feels awful. Maybe I'm just tired.

The Unforgotten - Laura Conway

Coincidence or what? My Biorhythm chart for today gives me an 11 ... 5 for Emotional, 5 for Intellectual and only a 1 for Physical.









Wednesday

October 19, 1977

Why am I sitting in this class?? Scott got us high on some Columbian this morning and my brain is in no shape to be trying to participate in a class I'm already blowing as it is. (Random Note #1: I definitely do NOT like R.W. She gives off bad, conceited vibes that I really can't stand.) (Random Note #2: WHAT exam?!?!) (Random Note #3: Get me the hell outta here ... !!)

Someone would probably have noticed him earlier if he had not been seated at the top of the bleachers, nondescript and obscured by the crowd of five hundred. No one, not one person in the crowd, tore their eyes from the field for even

(He has died noiselessly of heart failure - slumped down in his seat, head tilted to one side, eyes closed, mouth slack. He is holding a half-eaten box of popcorn, which has fallen in his lap and is spilling...)

The 1st to notice him is Curtis, an eight year old boy

Re-read "First Confession" and "My Oedipus Complex," compare two childrens' view of the world









Thursday morning

October 20, 1977

A gray, overcast morning that suits my mood particularly well. I am very depressed. I'm angry with Scott and his arrogant attitude ... angry with Dad for treating me like a ten year old ... disappointed with school, and with myself for my lack of discipline ...

... over-tired and not looking good today at all. I have a massive amount of homework waiting for me when I get home, several large pieces of homework due tomorrow. What a rotten day this is shaping up to be.

Sometimes I think that things between Scott and I are really hopeless. Just when I reach a point where I'm satisfied with our relationship and feel that we're both thinking the same way - that we're both on the same wavelength - some stupid little argument will tear things apart. I swear to God there are times when I almost hate him ... when there doesn't seem to be any love at all. What is particularly infuriating to me is his selfishness and arrogance. He refuses to see anyone's side but his own. For all my pleading and crying and ranting and raving, there is simply no way to turn him around, ever.

I'm beginning to get really tired of all this.








Friday morning

October 21, 1977

Yes, as usual things between Scott and I worked themselves out, and everything is semi-OK between us. I can never stay mad at him, can I? Even when I'm so angry I could just KILL him, the minute he makes any kind of conciliatory move I lose all resolve.

Evening:

I just don't feel like going out tonight, so I'm staying home & relaxing. Later on I'll smoke some Columbian and listen to records or something. Scott is going to a hall party with some of his friends. I hate hall parties - they're crowded, noisy, expensive, and filled with people I don't know. So I actually don't mind staying home. Maybe I'll try to write some poetry later, when I'm "inside looking out."









My dream on 10/23/77

Death was in human form, a tall heavy-set man, and he was following me around several places.









Monday morning

A very definite case of the first-thing-Monday-morning, looking-and-feeling-rotten BLAHS. Actually, that's not entirely true - I do look awful (my hair & face wouldn't cooperate this morning) but I don't feel all THAT bad. Just kind of tired and wispy and longing for my nice warm bed. I have hopes that this day might improve with age.

One low point: Dad is home today and tomorrow, so no nice, quiet, private afternoons for a couple of days. Sigh. One happy note: I got an "A" on my Lit exam.

SNS: kiss my nose and call me love.









So very sad. Only half of me cares enough to write about it: the other half wants to find a place between the walls and hide. I am not happy with myself. I feel sick, and dirty, and exasperated with Terri for being everything she is. Her face in the mirror is ugly - an ugliness that transcends everything else, every good quality she has been made to believe she possesses. An ugliness that reaches out and takes hold of everything she says and does.

Did you see her crying at the party last night?  I saw her.  She sat in the chair and turned her face to the wall, but I saw her, and I saw the two tears she cried. I don't know why she was crying, exactly. She was sad. He wasn't listening to her; he wouldn't look at her. He was there and she wasn't. Lately, he is always there and she never is.

Oh God  ...   is this the way life must be? A constant round of hangovers and wet pillows and waiting for the phone to ring so I can crawl on verbal knees and beg for forgiveness? This, then, is life? Love? The world? God, you know I don't expect the perfect relationship. He is not Adam and I am not Eve (although I'm sure A & E had their ups and downs). I only want to know that I am on the same wavelength, in synch, with even one single person in this world. I do not want to resign myself to total isolation.

I don't like parties anymore. I don't think I ever did. I am fiercely jealous of other girls, prettier girls, girls who have poise and nice clothes and perfect hair, girls who can dance in the middle of a crowded room without embarrassment. Those are the girls you watch and despise and desperately wish to emulate.  Girls I would give anything to be like ...

But throw myself away and join the crowd? I can't. I can't let go of my inhibitions, because that's the only thing that distinguishes me from the dancers. I can open my coat and smile and parade my body like women in the market, but in a crowd I am invisible. I have the type of face you look at once and forget. Not because I'm not pretty - I can be - but because the instant I'm pushed into one of those frantic, smoke-clogged rooms filled with endless and endless faces, something inside of me freezes. My face takes on an automatic expression of "God I wish I could go home." Not a dancer's face at all.

What does he see in these "parties"? (Is that what they really are? Parties? Swarms of people anesthetizing themselves with drink and drugs, bumping into each other and not even remembering it the next morning ... the same faces, the same conversations every time? That's a party ?)

Maybe I do not fit into this part of his life because I do not fit in, period.

Evening:

It is all right. Everything is peace again and we are very happy. Terri is sleepy and wants to crawl between the sheets and lose herself in dreams. Tomorrow must be better: it cannot be any worse than today was. All the words have been said and the tears cried and there is nothing more to do but begin again in the morning.

Wherever he is ... is he thinking about her? Did he read the words she wrote on the napkin and stuffed into his pocket? ("I love you, Sweetheart. Maybe I can change a little ...? I love you enough to try, anyway.") This is not a compromise, but for now it will suffice. She loves him



 

(PAGES MISSING, I THINK)



It is Hallowe'en afternoon. He just left and now she is warm and happy. Tonite they will take her little sister trick or treating.



Night:

Wow. Bought some speed from Kevin this afternoon & it's very nice.

Scott & I, Halloween 1977
We're probably dressed for a party: I don't remember the specifics.
(I wonder if I got too drunk & had to be carried home that year?)




Tuesday night
November 1, 1977

What can I write about? I spent a while this evening leafing through some old journals - I've decided to edit them, in case something should happen and they end up in the wrong hands - and I was struck by how dull & repetitious a lot of them are. It seems that no matter how old or young I am, 15 or 19, my problems have a way of repeating themselves: Terri is lonely and wishes she had a boyfriend. Terri has a crush on someone who doesn't know she's alive. Terri falls in love. Terri loses boy. Terri drinks too much. Terri sinks into depression. I really hadn't paid too much attention to the way things go around in circles this way until now.

Hey! Listen to my awful love poem that I wrote for my Writing class. (It's supposed to be bad and cliché-ridden):

I love you with my heart and soul.
Tho I am half, you make me whole.
You'll find no truer love than mine
So will you be my Valentine?









Things I Would Like To Experience In My Lifetime

  • Having a delivery boy ring my doorbell and hand me a giant bouquet of flowers ...
  • Living in an apartment alone and decorating it any way I want...
  • Going to an expensive department store with enough money to buy a complete new wardrobe ...
  • Going through one whole week feeling completely happy ...
  • Sitting in the Garden of Gethsemane and picking up vibrations from two thousand years ago ...

Well  ...  except for that last one, I've managed to hit everything on the list so far. 

 

 




ALL-TIME FAVORITE SONGS:

"Curtains," Elton John
"Calling Occupants," Klaatu
"Songbird," Fleetwood Mac
"Atlantis," Donovan
"Wond'ring Aloud," Jethro Tull
"Suzanne," Noel Harrison
"Wedding Song (There Is Love)," Paul Stookey






WHAT I WATCH ON TV:

SUNDAY - Rhoda, On Our Own
MONDAY - Little House On The Prairie
TUESDAY - The Fitzpatricks, Three's Company, One Day At A Time, Family
WEDNESDAY - Eight Is Enough
THURSDAY - The Waltons, James At 15, Class of '65
FRIDAY - Donny & Marie, ABC Movie of the Week
SATURDAY - Bob Newhart, Operation Petticoat, Love Boat, Saturday Night Live









Thursday night

November 10, 1977

I've been very depressed the last couple of days. Nothing unusual, is it? And I've been thinking that what I OUGHT to do is sit down with this journal and write it all out ... all the things that are bothering me, and what I should do about them, and introspective stuff like that. But you know, the minute I pick up a pen and look down on a blank sheet of paper, something inside of me freezes. I can't get the words out. I can't even seem to write a letter to Rudy. I've wasted at least 100 pieces of stationery by writing one or two sentences, looking at what I've written, hating it, and crumpling it all up.

What's the problem, Ter?









Friday morning 8:45 a.m.

November 11, 1977

Now I'm really depressed. I've been looking forward to this day all week - a chance to sleep in and be ALONE all day - and guess who decides to stay home? DAD. Just great.

Damn it. Why has everything been so screwed up lately? Nothing has been going right - a giant fight with Scott yesterday, my grades going down again, bored and lonely with nothing to do. Shit. I'm only living a half life. And now Dad decides to pretend he's "sick" and stay home from work, so I have to stay holed-up in my room all day, just to get away from him.

I can't stand him. I can't stand me. I can't stand anybody and I hate this life.

Why is everything (still) so lousy? I mean, it seems like every journal I've ever kept is filled with sad, angry, depressed-type things. Doesn't it ever change? When am I going to be happy? Ever?

I want too much of Scott. I want to crack him open like a walnut and poke around his thoughts, know every secret thing about him. I want him to be as aware and concerned about feelings as I am. I want him to recognize and cater to my sensitivity. I want him to quit expecting ME to change - I'm the way I am, and what can be done? I want him to write me poetry. I want him to send me unexpected letters in the mail, filled with deep thoughts and musings. I want him to always understand what I'm trying to say.

God ... I feel really rotten. Sunken. Sodden from all the tears of the past few days. Headachey from the effort of longing. I'm nothing but a half-person, living my stale, static little half-life. Nothing ever changes. I'm going to be stuck at home, dependent on Daddy and his $15 a week allowance, for the rest of my life. The world - the real world, with its excitement and its challenges - is too far away.

I feel ugly. Disappointed. Unfulfilled. Bored. Lonely. Hungry for real conversation. Longing for a friend I can lean on. Very, very depressed, above and under and through it all ...

What ever happened to happy days? In spite of myself, there have been good times. Summer of '72. The bus trip to California. Phil. Prom night. Early dates with Scott. Things that have sprung unexpectedly into view and then just as quickly ended. Why can't we just reach into a fishbowl and pull out a moment or two and relive it? I could spend the whole rest of my life reliving past moments.

Evening:

Better (a little). Scott called this morning while I was busily writing all those depressing thoughts, and asked if I wanted to go to the Pike Place Market with him, his aunt Colleen and her daughter Amy. Had a good time. Scott is out somewhere tonite and I am sitting home alone, but I am very tired so I don't really mind. Had a long, full day. We're going to Cindy Koch's party tomorrow night anyway.

I love Scott.








Saturday

November 12, 1977

Time on my hands. We won't be going to Cindy's until 8:30 or so, and it's only 5:00 right now. Too early to start my hair or makeup. Dinner (steak and Tater Tots) is cooking but won't be ready for a while. I am at loose ends.

I wonder what will happen tonite. Will we go to Cindy's party, or will something else come up? If we go to the party, will we have fun? Will I end up getting too high and screaming at Scott? That has happened so many times, and I don't even know why, really. Every once in a while I just seem to lose control of myself, particularly when I've had too much too drink or when I'm having a rotten time, and I just fall apart. God, I hope that doesn't happen again.

Just had an inspiration: think I'll lengthen and hem my black pants.








Sunday afternoon

November 13, 1977

Hungover. You'll never believe this, Journal, but in spite of all my good intentions and inner resolve to never let it happen again   ...  it happened. I drank too much and freaked out at Scott when he was taking me home last night. Sometimes I totally amaze myself. I woke up this morning with a swirling headache and a bruised stomach and dry throat, and I feel lower than hell. I was positive that Scott would be hating me, but what's really beautiful is that he called early this afternoon and was incredibly sweet and understanding and forgiving. Until he called, I was miserable ... if I owned sackcloth and ashes, I would have been wearing them. After he called, I felt POUNDS lighter. I still have this crummy hangover to deal with, but at least Scott loves me and knows me well enough by now to understand that it wasn't ME screaming last night ... it was the nine beers I had. He is a genuinely kind, nice person at times.









Monday afternoon

November 14, 1977

There's so much to be writing about, if only the writer inside of me wasn't stuck in neutral. Things I've read, things I've seen and done, people I've had contact with, endless little things ...

For instance: this afternoon I came across a copy of The Seattle P.I., dated August 9th, 1974. Dad kept it because that was the day Nixon resigned, but the front page wasn't what I found most interesting - at least, not as interesting as the Entertainment section, where I found a list of the Top 40 songs for that week. For some reason that list really took me back to that summer, three years ago. The page is already getting yellow and faded and looks a century old.

Where was I on August 9, 1974? I really must try and find out ...

Here it is in my diary for that summer:

Friday August 9, 1974

"Closer and closer to camp ... in a way I'm excited, but I'm going to hate saying goodbye to Phil. I'll miss him so much. He came over and spent the day after I got home from babysitting; we just hung around the house. Cray came over for a sec (with Doug E.) to pick up his shirts. Phil and me walked to the drugstore so I could pick up some stuff for camp. He stayed until 10, we sat outside in the backyard looking at the stars. I love him.

Ter."

Notice that there is NO mention of President Nixon or the news of that day ...? Rather indicative of the way my personal life was/is more important than anything else. When the first men landed on the moon and live telecasts were being sent to earh on television, my brother and I got bored and went outside to play! When President Kennedy was assasinated (I was five), my best friend Patty Rae and I discussed it for a few minutes, and then we went back to work on our playhouse. It's kind of a shame that I've grown up in the middle of so much exciting history and have paid so little attention to it. Maybe that's the way most children are.





November 14, 1977 is:

Remembering where I was four years ago, and realizing how far I've come ... a pile of clean laundry on the floor, which should be put away ... KING-AM radio instead of the usual FM, because I'm trying to catch up on the latest songs ... green salad and chicken a la king for lunch ... reading the August 9, 1974 Seattle P.I. ... having to buy "Mother Courage" for my Lit class ... wondering how I can possibly afford to go back to school next quarter ... Christmas drawing closer, and with it all the joy and magic of the season ... re-reading "Looking For Mr. Goodbar," and STILL crying over the ending ... knowing that I should clean my room before it reaches the Crisis Stage ... but my usual case of "no energy" ... wondering if I'm getting a typewriter for Christmas, and wishing I had it now ... 4:00 in the afternoon, and Terri V. is alive and well and living in the U.S.A. ...

Evening:


Dad is in a rotten mood because the furnace has died on us and the electricity is all fouled up, so I'm "hiding" here in my room to avoid him. When he's in one of his rages, the smartest thing to do - if you want to preserve your sanity - is to stay out of the way.

So now the house is freezing cold. Guess I'll have to pile on extra blankets tonight.








Thursday morning

November 17, 1977

Sitting in the cafeteria at school. Hungry. Scott is standing in line, waiting for our breakfasts. Noisy. Here he comes - good. I could eat a horse.

Later:

Breakfast was good - an egg, hashbrowns and toast. Kind of warmed me up a little and made me feel a little better on this dull, nothing day. Tomorrow Dad begins another three day weekend, dammit. I can't stand it when he's around on weekends.

The very last thing I feel like doing
is writing a poem about you.

So I won't.








Friday night

November 18, 1977

Sitting.

Sitting.

Sitting.

Sitting.

Scott is out who-knows-where, and I am busy sitting.

Can't shake off the lethargy.

What should I do tonite? Get high and write ridiculous poetry? Watch "The Three Musketeers" or "Mary White" (can't decide which) on TV? Write my pathetically overdue letter to Rudy in Canada? Work on my scrapbook or my photo albums? Call Mom and get her Christmas lists? WHAT?

It snowed last night, the first snow of the season. Waking up this morning to find the world blanketed in white made an ordinary day something special; I love snow, especially the first snow of the year. Makes me want to break out the old Christmas albums and start stringing popcorn.









Saturday afternoon

November 19

Happy, in a way.

No ... happy isn't the word. "Happy" should be reserved for special times. Content is more like it. No reason   ...  just content. Scott called a little while ago, invited me to Thanksgiving dinner this week at his aunt and uncle's. That really made me feel good. I've always believed that Thanksgiving dinner should be shared by a lot of people, not a turkey TV dinner on a TV tray alone in my bedroom.

Also - Scott and I are going out tonite. Don't know where or when yet.








Sunday night

November 20, 1977

I feel like writing. Specifically, I feel like writing about my life and the way I feel about things today, now, this minute.

Last night I spent the night at Scott's house with him and his family. We sat around drinking a little beer, watching TV, having a very relaxed, pleasant time. Scott and I fell asleep on his bed   --  we slept through "Saturday Night Live"  --  and woke up around 1 a.m. when his mom came in to bring us some extra blankets. I slept in Scott's bed, wearing a borrowed pair of jammies, and he slept on the sofa-bed next to me. This morning I woke up when Squirt, their little dog, jumped on the bed and started chewing on my head. We ate breakfast together, around the table  --  a breakfast of eggs and hashbrowns and sausage and toast, a real Sunday breakfast  --  and then spent the morning reading the Sunday paper, sitting around in the living room talking, joking.

Tonight Dad and I had dinner at Grandma and Grandpa's, and again it was dinner around the table, a real family time.

That's the way I should be living   ...   with a real family. Eating around the table, spending time together. I really miss that kind of life.  I don't hate Dad, of course. I love him, because he's my father and you're supposed to love your father, aren't you? I just hate the way we're living here. There's no warmth, no real understanding, no older woman to talk to, no "family." Living in this house makes me feel sad and lonely and like I'm missing out on something.

You can love someone and still not enjoy living with them.








Monday afternoon 5 p.m.

November 21, 1977

Hiding in my room, as usual. The first thing Dad said when he got home today was, "How do you like this digusting weather?"  See? All he does is complain. I'm getting so tired of hearing it all the time. He complains about the weather, TV commercials, work, his health, bills, the family, traffic, the people he works with, the neighbors, practically everything imaginable. It's very tiresome. I hope to God I'm not like that when I get older.

Got a letter from Dee Dee today.

Potato baking in the oven. Trying to decide if I'm able to stomach a steak or not. Hungry. Very, very cold today - freezing, in fact. Wish it would snow some more tonite. I need a good thick snow to raise my spirits.

Later:

Pleasantly stoned, watching television.

Drifting

Everything is slanted again and very, very mellow.

Soft thoughts ... thinking is soft. The bed is soft, my body is soft, all sounds are soft.

We should find a song to share.

No song can rival "Vincent" for pure beauty of melody and thought.

There is cold somewhere but it can't touch me through the softness.

Love.

I love Scott. Love is soft - a soft pure feeling.

I love someone and he loves me back.








Tuesday morning

November 22, 1977

Sitting alone in the Hot Dog Hilton, drinking a Tab and looking out the window. It will probably snow later today because it is very cold and the sky is gray. I am feeling good today. Looking forward to Thankgsiving in two days.

What am I thinking about? I know ... where will I be in two years? I will be approaching my 22nd birthday, but other than that I have no idea what I'll be doing or where I'll be. Slightly uncomfortable feeling - having no real plans for my life. Will I still be in school? Will I be living on my own, or married?

Two years ago now (here I go again, delving into the past), I was in my senior year at Glacier. I was sad about Steve, wishing I had someone to love. Rhonda and I were very close.

Will I ever write a book that people will read and love, the way that Laura Ingalls Wilder did? I've been reading a book about her life, and it's really touched me. She was an incredible woman. I wonder if people will remember me after I die.









Wednesday night

November 23, 1977

Feeling very guilty about not going to Thanksgiving Eve services with Grandma and Grandpa, after I said I would. I hate it when I let them down.









Friday

November 25, 1977

The day after Thanksgiving.

Scott and I had (another) argument last night, and he hasn't called all day - so here I sit in semi-seclusion, a hermit, alone on a Friday night with no one to talk to but a rumpled teddy bear, a television and my journal. This dumb argument was, as usual, largely my fault ... consequently I am too proud to call him up and beg forgiveness. HE certainly won't. I have the impression that he's going to let me sit here and stew in my own juice, seeing how long it'll take me to crack and call him. Actually, I don't feel half bad. I mean, I'm not sitting here wallowing in desolation or anything: I'm reading a good book, there's some good stuff on TV, I have a couple of joints left. I'm not happy, but I'm not miserable, either. I think I might possibly manage to live without Scott S. for an evening.

(But not forever?)

Sometimes I wonder if I really love him. Most of the time I feel certain I do; the only time I question it is when we've had a fight. I wonder if I'm more objective when things are smooth between us or when they're rocky? I'm probably NEVER objective when it comes to Scott. I either love him to distraction or hate him unreasonably, and neither feeling should be the norm.

You know what I wish I could do, Journal? More than anything in the world, I wish I could grow up. That's right - I wish I could grow up, get past this fourteen year old stage I'm at. I've been fourteen for five years now, and it's getting to be a very big bore. I'm going to be twenty (chronologically, anyway) in three weeks, and it would be nice to feel my age for a change. It would be nice to be in control of myself - to get past these adolescent emotions. I'd like to spend an entire evening with Scott without blowing up at him for no reason, without crying over nothing, without hearing him justifiably accude me of being a "baby." I AM a baby - an over-sensitive, selfish, unthinking baby, and I'm sick and tired of hearing him say it and knowing that it's the truth.









Saturday night 7:30 p.m.

November 26, 1977

Waiting for Scott and Wayne to come pick me up - we're going to Steve Peterson's party tonite. Scott called this morning, so once again our differences are resolved - I'd better make damned sure I don't blow it tonite, though. No getting too high. Wish he'd hurry up and get here. All I can do is nervously pile on makeup and mess with my hair.

2:30 a.m.

Well ... we did have another fight after all. How many does that make? Seems like all our nights out together end in argument.









Sunday morning

November 27, 1995

Oh boy ... I feel like someone should amputate my head. Do I ever have one heck of a hangover. I can't even get out of bed. I had seven beers last night - which is about four over my limit - and now my head and my stomach are telling me all about it.

At least Dad will be gone to the Seahawks game today, so I'll have some time to myself to recuperate.

Afternoon:

Still feeling rotten (physically). Just took two aspirins to calm my aching head, but I really feel horrible. WHY do I drink too much at parties?? At the time those seven beers barely touched me - I felt like I could go on drinking all night and never slur a word. It's always the morning-after that makes me realize I went over my limit again.









Monday morning

November 28, 1977

Alone in the Hotdog Hilton. Back in school. Should be in class, but the end-of-the-quarter, almost-December feelings are inside of me and I feel restless. I want something, but I'm not quite sure what it is or how to go about finding it. (Damn. I wish I had a cigarette! Why didn't I bring any?? Should I ask the lady sitting next to me? Don't think I have the nerve!)

Nerves. Everything is nerves. My nerves are quickening and racing and I'm VERY restless. I feel vague and uneasy, like something should be happening but isn't. What do I want??

The little girl sitting with her mother at the table next to me is drawing on pieces of notebook paper ... every few minutes she whispers "Mommy!" and shows her what she's drawn. She's saying something now about going to the North Pole and seeing Santa Claus. Santa Claus!?!  Do children still believe in him?? It seems as though I never believed in him; at least, not all the way. We're expected to be so sophisticated so early. I wanted desperately to believe in him - to see him come sliding down the chimney on Christmas Eve. How do they expect children today to believe in Santa when he's sitting in the toy department of every store in town? One Santa is hard enough to believe in; several hundred is impossible. Little kids are smart. They can smell a rat when Santa turns up looking a little different at every store they visit. And that business of making little kids sit on some strange man's lap and having their picture taken with him ... that's almost ridiculous. With older kids it might be OK, but smaller children are usually scared to death and they make a giant fuss. I think it would be a lot more fun for some kids to have their picture taken with their father or grandpa or someone dressed up to LOOK like Santa, only they know who it really is and that Daddy is "pretending" to be Santa. That way they would be more comfortable, and they'd probably be more willing to relax and smile, and you'd get a lot nicer picture of two people you love. Later, when they're a little older, you could take them to see a store-Santa.  I certainly knew a lot about raising children when I didn't HAVE any.

Of course, this is all ridiculously trivial and I don't really know why I wasted a whole page writing about it. I will probably go down in history as having the most boring journals ever written. That is, what's left of them ... I've been going back and re-reading them, especially the ones I kept in high school, and I've been censoring the hell out of them. I feel bad about doing that - playing censor to my own history - but some of the things I wrote back then are so intensely personal, that the idea of anyone getting their hands on them and reading what I've written scares the heck out of me. Especially after I die. What if I died TOMORROW, and Dad or someone took it upon themselves to go through my journals? What would they think?? They'd read about all the dumb mistakes I've made, or the stupid things I've written when I've been drunk or high, or just the rotten things I've written about people when I've been angry or depressed, and they would wonder if they ever really knew me at all. I don't think I'd want them to know about those sides of me.

Sometimes I wonder why I started keeping these journals in the first place. I guess I wanted to be another Anne Frank or Alice (as in "Go Ask Alice"). What a laugh. I've never been articulate enough to qualify and I never will be.

Sitting in History now. Not in a good mood but I don't know why. Feeling very quiet. I hardly said a word in Writing. I must give the impression of being a terrible snob, but actually I just can't think of anything I need to say.





History 121 11/28/77

1607-1760 Colonies (as seen by England) are an economic element of England primarily.

Internal affairs (other than economic) are left largely to the colonies.

Economic Problems:

1700's - Wool Act of 1699

Molasses Act of 1733

Money Act of 1751

Hat Act of 1732 (fur hats)

Iron Act of 1750

Colonies developing need for economic stability

MY NEW PLANTS

Split-leaf philedendron
2 asparagus ferns
2 pepperomias
1 Wandering Jew
1 Grape Leaf
Umbrella plant








Thursday

December 1, 1977

The first day of December! And this has been one of the nicest days I've had in a long time. It really has.

I stayed home from school today - no real reason, except my period started last night and I was feeling crampy and tired when I woke up. I slept in until 10, when Scott called me from school to say "hi." Then he came by after school, and we spent the afternoon together. Layed on my bed in my room watching TV & "stuff" ... played the organ and sang Christmas carols at the tops of our lungs ... made scrambled egg sandwiches and chocolate milk ... he brought me an album of Christmas music, and before he left we sat in the living room (he in the armchair, me in his lap) and listened to the album straight through. I love him so, so much.








Saturday nite 1:35 a.m.

December 3, 1977

Damn, I wish I could write better because I have some important things to say, but I sprained a finger on my right hand yesterday and I can barely hold a pen. What I want to say, basically, is that I think I've reached a turning point in my life. Nothing momentous or earth-shattering ... it's just that today and tonight I've begun to realize that things aren't always going to be as stagnant and unchanging as they have been. Things WILL change. I WILL get my drivers license. I WILL get a car. I WILL move out on my own. My life is going to begin to move, and I have a feeling that it's going to happen soon.

I remember this.  It was a genuine turning point.  I was sitting in Scott's car that night, and all of a sudden I just knew that everything was going to work out, that things would change for the better soon, that my life was about to get very interesting.  I remember I tried to explain my epiphany to Scott, and he thought I was nuts.  (As usual.)  So I just kept the feeling to myself.  As it turned out, though, I was absolutely correct: within a few months, everything about my life began to change.







Sunday night

December 4, 1977

My sprained finger feels a lot better and I can write again. What I wrote last night probably sounds kind of goofy and melodramatic, right? Wrong. This is something I really feel, something almost tangible enough to touch. I've NEVER had a feeling like this before - so positive. I've been tearing myself down so much lately that I'd forgotten what it feels like to feel positive about my life. And not just vague, all-purpose self assurances that "things will probably be OK, someday." A real, true, genuine feeling that my life is in the process of changing RIGHT NOW.

I'll write more about it later.







Monday morning

December 5, 1977

As always: sitting in the Hilton. As always: skipping Lit. I look rotten today (my clothes, my hair) but actually I don't really care. Another draggy Monday morning, dead tired. Scott lost $13 playing cards last night and he didn't get home until after 3 a.m., so he feels terrible. I feel like Christmas and all holiday spirit is about ten million miles away. It doesn't even feel like December. Damn, I wish it would snow! A good, thick, heavy snow to blot out everything. Sunshine in December is the ultimate in depression. Guess it's a good thing I don't live in Florida! Maybe I should move to the North Pole.

This Christmas season has been doomed right from the start, anyway - I missed "Rudolph The Red Nosed Reindeer" on TV this year for the first time I can remember. (I caught the last 25 minutes, but by then it was too late - I'd already missed Clarice singing "There's Always Tomorrow." Might as well write off this Christmas right now. Ha.)

I wish that repulsive guy at the table across from me would quit staring. He is the low point of my morning every day.

Here is something Scott wrote for his Speech class:

"First, I would like to say that you should have given us a warning about the book before you assigned it. It was almost frightening, the number of times I saw myself in what the author was saying.

Probably my favorite part in the book, though, was the section dealing with the importance of gut-level communication in a relationship. I never reallyused to think about things like that back in high school. I had a couple offriends that I was very close to since elementary school. We always did everything together. We got in trouble together, we hung around outside of school a lot, and most of our teenage experiences were experienced together.

We did a lot of growing and learning together, and we all thought we could be really open and honest about things. This was true, but as I look back I realize that it was mostly about superficial things that really seemed importantat the time but really weren't. We hardly ever got to the point where we could really open up to one another and share our opinions freely. Sure, sometimes after we had a little too much to drink we would get into honest and open discussions without getting embarassed or feeling foolish. But for the most part we talked from the surface, being careful not to say anything that the other guy might consider "weird." And at the time, I guess we were all more or less satisfied with our friendship being what it was.

It wasn't until after I graduated that I had someone that I could be completely open with. Near the end of my senior year I met a girl. It wasn't a love at first sight thing or anything like that. We had been good friends in junior high, but hadn't talked much during high school. So I guess I should say that I "rediscovered" her in my senior year. Anyway, we started going out and developed a normal teenage relationship. There was nothing special about it at first; we had our fights, goodtimes and problems, just like everyone else. Actually, as time went on we had gone through a lot together, and as a result our relationship strengthened tremendously. We found ourselves becoming more open and honest with each other, and found we had each found someone who we could really talk to without worrying about what the other would think.

I can't begin to tell you what a great feeling it was to have someone like this. I finally found a person that I could share everything with, and her the same with me. Not just superficial things, either, but my thoughts, my experiences and even my emotions, which is something that is very hard for a teenage boy to do.

It's almost eerie in a way, to have grown to a point with another person that we can usually tell what the other is feeling about certain things. She gave me something I'd never had before; a person that I could come to, and if I felt the need, cry on her shoulder without being ridiculed or feeling scared of what she might think of me. I like to think that I have given the same to her; someone she can be totally honest with, without any hesitation or misgivings. I must tell you that this is quite a thrill to me. I'm not saying that our relationship is one of those made in heaven, where everything's always peaches and cream; to do so would be lying. But we have grown to where if something about the other bothers us, we can talk about it, without having any hostile feelings. We really can and often do talk about anything we want, without having to be phony or beat around the bush.

In case you haven't noticed by now, I am very much in love with her and I feel the same is true with her. We don't feel that we have to live together before getting married to see if we're compatible; the two years that we have been together prove that we are. I really wish that everyone was as lucky as I am now, especially those that are in their difficult teen years. There's a passage in the book that reads, "One's not half two - it's two are halves of one." I think that really sums up what our relationship has grown into. It is almost as though we have become one great person out of two lessers.

Scott N.S.
December 1977."







December 15, 1977

A few minutes past midnight ... I have just turned twenty.  A glass of wine to celebrate: a candle burning beside me on the dresser top. The house is very still, very quiet. At this moment I am more completely at peace with myself than I have been in some time. I can't even begin to say why. It is usually so easy for me to be depressed and dissatisfied with myself; give me a half minute and I can list a hundred things that are "wrong" about my life. Pinpointing my faults, my shortcoming, my disadvantages, is almost second nature.

But -- at this quiet hour, when I've slipped easily from a teenager to a young adult -- I would like to look at the things that are "right," and to count my blessings.

I am alive, first of all; perhaps that is the greatest blessing of all. I am alive, breathing, thinking; I can see, I can hear, I can touch. My senses are intact. I am a whole human being; what's more, I am an individual and unique human being. My thoughts are mine; my feelings are mine. I was created out of the love two people had for each other - I am a byproduct of love. The love those two people felt for each other is gone, but I remain as proof it existed once. One chance in a million billion that I would be the end result, and yet, here I am!

Secondly, I am a Christian, a child of God, daughter of the King. I have been born again into the Kingdom of God and a place is reserved for me. Others may worry, "What's the point of life if death is the result?" but I don't have to fear death. Sometimes I fear it, for other people especially, or for that actual moment of realizing "I am dying" ... but knowing that I will continue - the the life force in me will not evaporate - is another great blessing. Life can have real meaning for me because I know it won't end the moment my heart stops beating.

I have been born into a wonderful time, in a free country where my rights are insured. I have the freedom to voice an opinion or challenge a law; I will probably never know true oppression or persecution. I have been born into a place and a family where my needs are provided for; I will probably never know true hunger.

I have seen history - one president assassinated, one involved in terrible scandal. I have seen men walking on the moon for the first time, and the first actual look at another planet. I have seen technology and society undergo incredible changes.

I have many people who truly love me: my father, my mother, my grandparents, my brother and sister, my darling Scott.

I have had a happy life and a particularly happy and memorable childhood.

I have been gifted in many ways. I am pretty. I may not make the most of what I have, but the potential is there. I am talented in many ways - my writing, my art, my music. My talent may be undeveloped, but the potential is there, as well.

I have been created uniquely, not exactly like any other person who has ever lived.

I am: sensitive. I bruise easily. But on the other hand I can also feel for others. I am: easily moved - by inspiring music or poetry, by babies, by special times of the year, by sad movies. I am: sentimental, nostalgic, romantic. I despise prejudice and injustice, and I want to see women have equal rights and freedoms ... but at heart I love the idea of romance, however sexist. I will not resign myself to one life option: I will not automatically step into the Housewife/Mother mode when I'm married. There will be more for me than that. I am proud. I am stubborn. At times I am easily persuaded, but at other times I stand my ground unyieldingly. I am imaginative. I can express myself well: I can be articulate. I have a great deal of self-awareness and, whether I admit it or not, self-love. And self-love is the beginning of loving others.

All of this may sound incredibly vain, but it has been very hard for me to write. I'm not used to building myself up this way, and it seems all wrong. I'm almost tempted to tear these pages out - that's how unaccustomed I am to writing nice things about Terri V..

But tonight, when my birthday is now one hour old and I am comfortable and warm and sleepy, it's hard to look at the world any way but happily.






Fifteen minutes past midnight on December 19th and I can't get to sleep ... damn! Head is hurting from too many little white pills, full of worries. Tomorrow I must get eight more things for Christmas presents and then I'll be finished. We put the tree up tonite; a tiny one. Ho ho ho





Presents I bought for people this year:

Dad - Seahawks jacket, green plaid shirt, slippers, 2 pr. wool socks, sketch pad, calligraphy set, bottle of ink
Scott - record-cleaning kit, "Best of Traffic," Jefferson Airplane "Flight Log," "Who's Next," "Tommy," Eric Clapton "Slow Hand," short sleeved T-shirt, Highline College baseball jersey
Mom - red wool blouse, pearl neckchain, red earrings, mushroom wall plaques, Jontue cologne spray, plant stand w/4 small plants
Gram S - Trilogy (J.R.R. Tolkien), plant stand w/4 small plants, clip earrings, wall plaques.
Gram V - oven mitt, stationery, hand lotion
Gramp V - mens handkerchiefs
Debby - Big Beauty Barbie Horse, purse, 3 lip glosses
Dick V - long sleeve pullover, T-shirt
Jody - candle holders
Jerry - T shirt w/decal
Kelli - wall plaques for her nursery, striped overalls, terry-cloth sweatshirt w/hood
Dick S - T-shirt w/decal
Ann - T shirt w/decal, wall plaques
Ken - sweatshirt (gray)
Joann (Scott's mom) - Jontue perfume, necklace
Kim (Scott's sister) - necklace holder, necklace
Mrs. L (Scott's grandma) - candle holder
Neil (Scott's dad) - golf doodad
Gim - stationery






Thursday afternoon

December 22, 1977

Christmas is only a few days away, but I swear it feels like an eternity. I'm just as excited as a little kid this year! I don't know HOW I'm going to get through these next few days.

Christmas Eve

Waiting for Scott to come over so we can go to Grandma's. Very VERY excited. I feel ten years old again.








Wednesday

December 28, 1977

Oh boy. What a relief. The curse was due two days ago, and I'm usually so regular that I was starting to panic. I started tonite - minutes ago, in fact - and I feel pounds lighter. God, what a scare! That is one nightmare I don't intend to live through again, not until Scott and I are married and in good financial shape and we both want a little freckle faced addition to the family, thank you. Good night.









Thursday morning

December 29, 1977

Dad took the day off with another phony "sick leave," so that means he'll be home today, tomorrow, Saturday, Sunday and Monday. What a depressing way to end my Christmas vacation. No more beautiful solitude. No more peace and quiet. No more nice clean house. Nothing but newspapers strewn all over the floor, dishes piling up in the kitchen faster than I can wash them, and listening to him complain and grumble about anything that comes to mind.

The post Christmas blues are bad enough. Now I can't even be alone.

At least my period started last night. You probably know what a relief that is. God, if I'd been pregnant again, I COULDN'T have told Scott ... I would have had to leave the country.



 

 

   

At my grandparents' 50th wedding anniversary celebration
December 30, 1977





 

Monday night
January 2, 1978

A whole (practically) brand-new year. I wonder if 1978 will be a more inspiring and eventful year than poor old 1977 was ...

Just smoked a joint and now everything is fuzzy and soft and slanted. Really feels nice.





Terri Vert

History 121 Test

1. Before Europe could begin to consider overseas exploration, discovery and colonization, the monopoly of the Church had to be broken. The Church was all-powerful, dictating nearly all aspects of European life, and served as the people's sole "channel to God." It controlled politics, it controlled people.

There was little sense of national unity





This is the end of all my beginnings



As bloodless and unreasonable



Girl comes home from school to find her mother passed out on the couch, dead drunk. (thrilling)



nothing grew from the seed we planted



His picture hangs on our wall And we live our lives all around him.



Like fingerprints on a window



Going to the clinic had been a tremendous waste of time. There are things a person knows intuitively, without having to spend an entire afternoon wearing a paper gown and having people poke needles into your thumb: Melia had known all along, and having some strange, sweaty-palmed doctor confirming it seemed an embarrassing inconvenience. When the nurse brought in the clipboard, he looked at it with puckered eyebrows, and then said in his kindly voice, "Your tests were positive."



Camouflage

If I stand in the backyard long enough tonight
Will the snow that is whitewashing the trees and the picnic tables
Cover me for the winter too?
If I stand still as a fencepost
And wait for the flurry to quick-freeze my blood
Will the drifts settle and camouflage me in white?
Hidden in layers of soundless cold
I could sleep, undistrubed, and dream the dreams of long winter icicles
While children put berries in my eyes
And starving birds pick them out again.



FAVORITE SONGS WHILE I WROTE THIS JOURNAL:

"Break Down" - The Alan Parsons Project
"I Feel Love" - Donna Summer
"Nobody Does It Better" - Carly Simon
"Slip Slidin Away" - Paul Simon
"You Light Up My Life" - Debby Boone
"We Will Rock You" - Queen
"Sheer Heart Attack" - Queen



Possible Names For My Future Children:
Jamie Lee  (Hi Jaymi!)
Jordan Michael
Kasey (Lee)  (Hi Kacie!)
Patrick
Ryan
Kyle  (Hi Kyle!)






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