I have a sticky note on my desktop telling me what date I was on in my trip through Tumblr-izing relevant parts of my LiveJournal, chronicling the shit teenage me went through with my dad and my step-mother.   I’ve been uploading the posts with their original dates - slightly edited to remove names of people like my teachers and such, and with brief comments from present me in italics at the end - to a tumblr that is just stuff about my dad and my step-mother, so I don’t have to sort through 600 ‘What kind of goth fairy are you???’ quizzes to get a picture of what was going on.  My intention was to then move on to transcribing the actual physical journals that I kept up until my stepmother found them, highlighted passages she didn’t like, and sent me to a psychologist. 

But I can’t face them.  They’re on my shelf with my past sketchbooks, but sometimes even the color of the book makes me feel like running.  The very idea of opening those books fills my stomach with bricks.  Bricks made of hardened vomit or something. 

I wanted to make sure I had an easily accessible record of what had been done, so I never again made the mistake of saying it wasn’t that bad.  I don’t know if I’m afraid of looking at the reflection of my dad or of myself, but it makes me sick in my guts to even imagine the handwriting.