MAY, 1979, JOURNAL ENTRY (I am Twenty-Years-Old)

My mother is another problem, but she will always be a problem.

I came home with Mark and Mike last evening, to get Barb, and to change before we went to NYC. As soon as I came in, she started bitching about me going out every night. She doesn’t like that. She thinks it’s wrong. She doesn’t like my style of living, and if I don’t do what she wants, I’d better get out.

I have been kicked out of my house millions of times, verbally. I have been called a whore, a bitch, and any other filthy word you can think of.

I know my mother hates me. We get no pleasure out of each other. I am a burden to her, and she probably prays for the day to come for me to move out.

Once, when Mark called twice in one day, she yelled at me, “Why don’t you just marry him and get out!”

She says this crudely and harshly, and I try not to cry. Her words hurt. She doesn’t know how to talk rationally, like a human being. I think she is insane at times.

Of course, it is not all her fault. I must have done something wrong. I can’t figure it out, though. I clean my room, and I do the dishes in the morning, since I’m the last to leave. And, I do the dishes at night. I try to make life as easy as possible at home. I never talk to my mother. I have given up trying because all she ever does is argue with me.

She yells at me in front of my friends. She yells at them. I hate that. She doesn’t have any right to do that. They are human beings. They are people with feelings. They care. They love.

I guess that’s why they are my friends. I need people like them. That’s why I go out every night. Because they have feelings, and so do I.