It was you I always ran to when I needed somewhere to go, somewhere to talk. I think I’ve made her cry again, something I haven’t done for a very long time, and I don’t even know where it came from. My stomach is in knots. I hate fighting with my mother. Maybe I knew more back then than I do now, but I’m clouded with guilt and newfound responsibility for past excursions that I guess I never thought would catch up with me. But I can’t come running to you with this one for you are involved, and the shoulder of a complete stranger would be the only ear to witness my confessions. Maybe I should seek a psychiatrist, or maybe you screwed me up for life. Maybe I screwed myself. When mom comes home from wherever she went, I shall have to make my apologies and admit to an active temper.
January 4, 2002