College days; I am twenty-years-old, in 1979. I consider my Journal a friend, therefore, I write as though to a friend.

Journal,

There is just no time to be alone, there is no place to go. And, if there is a moment, it is only there to clear my head, to think, to sleep. I was having problems with school, and I was frustrated. I couldn’t write. It just got in the way of my school life.

My family and friends think I am artistic. I know I’m not. I wish I could make a fortune in ceramics, and writing, and embroidery. Those are the three things that I do that make me feel like me. They make me feel wonderful.

And, those are the three things that I hardly ever do. Why? Because school vacation is here, and I have to live at home, where there is no room for my art supplies, where there is no clay, where there is just work to see when I wake up in the mornings.

Home is where there is yelling, where there isn’t a quiet corner. After I work, I go out with my boyfriend. I am always helping others. I supply the needs for my manager, I supply the needs for customers, I supply the needs for my mother. When I do housework for my mother, I don’t have to hear her yell at me. There is hardly any love here.

I supply the needs for my boyfriend on weekends and weekday evenings. I never supply the needs for myself. I am going crazy. Can you feel it? Can you feel how hard I am writing with my Wearever medium pen? The intensity of the ink flowing across the paper is tremendous.

I let out a long sigh. It is all coming out. My anger is draining out. There’s so much more inside.

I’m sorry. I’m sorry for burdening you with my anger. I’m not going to stop writing until it is all drained out. Even if it takes years.

I have to find Jean. She is there, somewhere. She is a happy person, she is funny, and pretty, and she loves painting, and going to school. She loves it, even if it is hard, so hard, to live through life. Her life is hidden by anger now, but someday, someday, I’ll find her.