October 17, 2006 Hello.
If you are reading this notebook that means I have lost the only present I recieved from my mother on my eighteenth birthday. My name is not important for that doens't describe me in the slightest. What I am is isolophobia, the fear of being alone. We are all ruled by our fears, cowering as they rape us of our dignity and spirit. We are our phobias, whatever they might be. I am the girl striving to be loved. I am the one terrified of the day where the people she loves wake up from the dream and realize she is nothing. I am isolophobia. Today is my birthday and what I have recieved so far is this tiny journal. My mother hoped it would free me from my own mind, get all the things bottled up inside on paper. A poor man's therapist. I'll have to let her know if this plan actually works. I live in a small town filled with people with small minds. My mother and I share a one bedroom, one bathroom house on the lake. She thought it was worth it just to be on the lake. I agree, but sometimes the confinement makes me want to scream. But she tries her hardest, and that's what counts. She would sacrifice her own life for me. She works six jobs so I can have little pleasures of life. She's the only one who truly cares for me.
There's not much else to know about me. I have medicocre friends and get mediocre grades and have an altogether mediocre life. I enjoy art, though I cannot create it. Dark comedies are my favorite types of movies, the ones that make you feel everything at once. The ones that remdind you why you're alive. I don't watch much T.V. but I do read a lot. I read anything and everything, from Romance to Sci Fi to the Bible if nothing else is around. Reading is my escape from mediocracy that surrounds me. I know this is who I'm meant to be, and this is how my life will play out, and I'll never truly effect anyone, but when I'm reading, everything I'm meant to be melts away. I'm wherever the author has taken me. I'm in a nonexistant land where things are different. They could be better or worse, but almost all of them are somehow profound. Because someone somewhere is reading it. Somehow this author has touched a person through their words, brought them to a world of their own. What could possibly be more profound than that?
Other than that I am completely average. I have shoulder length brown hair, soft grey-blue eyes, an average build with a little pudge for good measure, and a slightly shorter than average height. I'm the type of girl that blends in at high school. I don't stand out but I don't quite fit in.
I have no significant other nor have I ever had one. I pretend it doesn't bother me, but deep down that's all I really want. Just for one person to really get me. For one person to understand why I cry at night. For someone to not believe me when I lie and say I'm alright. For the one person who won't realize I'm nothing and leave. I don't know if he exists, but I pray for him every night.
But for now I must stop writing, for my mom's getting ready to sing happy birthday. After that I shall be opening the rest of my presents and praying that this year, something doesn't make me cry. Five years in a row is enough to cry on your birthday. Farewell, I promise I'll return.