Facing the Music Read Free Page B

difficult to lay hold of what exactly put her in such a state of unrest, as both my sister and I were, by most general description, two ordinary children. Reasonably well behaved, we were neither extraordinarily precocious nor disobedient, yet we could never seem to win her affection. I felt that we were always being reminded that we were our mother’s children. The implication was that we were born as evidence of my mother’s youthful pregnancy—errors in judgment and, above all, unwanted.
    If my sister and I did not adequately clean our room, or maybe forget to put away our crayons, she would snap, and, before I knew it, I was standing guard between her and my sister, who in tears, fell into self-preserving silence, while I held out for justice.
    Though my father knew that we were at war, he seemed unable to secure any kind of lasting peace. The best he had to offer was in trying to keep us separated as much as he could. Encouraging us to keep a low profile. Pleading with us stay out of trouble.
    I felt very isolated. My stepmother’s awful words would echo in my head long after our arguments had ended. I had difficultyat such a young age to find the words to explain to my father, or anyone for that matter, how those fights were chipping away my spirit. I needed to be believed. Protected. Cared for. But our house had turned into a zone of either icy silence or earth-shaking rage.
    I needed a peaceful place of my own to retreat, as my father found in his work. Going to school turned out to be my saving grace. There I would learn to read and write. Through the many books on offer at my school library, I found a way of floating away to other more pleasant worlds. From Bill Pete’s “Scamp”in The Whingdingdilly to Lucy Maud Montgomery’s Anne of Green Gables , I was fascinated by how each character prospered despite their trials. I wanted to be like those heroes, unfazed and victorious through adversity.
    I related to the diaries of little Anne Frank. I recognized the feeling of being locked away, challenged by silence. I imagined that I, too, could grab a pencil and paper and write down everything that was going on inside my head.
    Writing was one of the few acts in my life that I felt I could control. The pages helped keep me sane. I couldn’t go to school and tell of my struggles at home. Who could I tell? What could I tell? I wasn’t being beaten. I had a roof over my head, clean clothes, and well-balanced meals. There were no bruises to give evidence to my deepening wounds. Maybe I was just too sensitive? Maybe this was what life was like for other kids? Whatever the case, I couldn’t seem to escape my sorrow and what felt like a rising tide of insanity. I didn’t want to be another suicidal depressed kid sent to therapy so that I could be whispered about. I just wanted to get on with things. So, onto the pages it all went. My fears. My anger. My plots for escape. Even if I didn’t havethe courage to run away now, I could prepare myself for the possibility in the event of emergency. My imaginative contingency plans were invaluable in maintaining my sense of control. Maybe, one day, I could be just like Sam Gribley in My Side of the Mountain . Living on my own out in the forest, alone, challenged, but free.
    I was surviving by seeing my thoughts become real, legible evidence of what otherwise seemed invisible. It never occurred to me how I would feel if anyone actually read my thoughts. All that was about to change.
    It was subtle at first. I started to recognize that some of the comments coming from my stepmother sounded eerily like the worries I had squirreled away on my pages. It took me a while to realize that she was teasing me with my own secrets.
    Recognizing how the taunts were in the vein of my hidden truths, it finally dawned on me. “Oh, my God,” I thought, nauseated at the realization, “she’s read my pages!”
    I changed my tactics and