The Diary of Tatum Stewart

A/N: Please keep in mind that that this “diary” is purely fictional, and isn’t based off of any true events. This is purely a figment of my imagination. Enjoy.

ENTRY ONE

11/28/07

Dear Diary…Ugh,

Welcome to my life, I guess. How do you write in one of these things, anyway? My therapist told me to get one of these things and well… here I am.

I guess I should start with the basic facts; name, age, birthday, the whole whoopdee do…

Well my name is Tatum Marie Stewart, I’m 13 and this is my life. I was born on Christmas. I’m so lucky… Not.

I was born and raised in New York City, but my mom and her whorish activities forced us to move to San Francisco with her latest boy toy, Eric. I should be happy, right? I’m in California, the Sun Shine State, and the state of the stars! Well trust me; California ain’t all it’s cracked up to be. I hate it here. I wish I was back in New York… my real home.

So I just you’re wondering why I have a therapist, right? Well how can you, you’re just a stupid book full of pages. I’ll spill anyway.

Well once upon a time, I Tatum Marie Stewart was actually a happy child. Until I got into sixth grade at least. After that, I was introduced to a whole bunch of stuff that would make your mother blush. Well, my mom passed out at it. Score for me. That’s as close to dead she’s ever been, and god was I happy. But anyway, let’s get back to the reason why I visit the woman who needs a therapist her damn self.

Well, when I was six, also known as the age that my mother could actually keep her damn legs closed for more than 30 seconds, my mother had come home drunk after an argument with my dad. Well, she decided in all her drunken glory, to tie me to a chair and watch her have sex with some guy she met at a bar. Yeah, basically my mother had sex in front of me and now I’m scarred for life. Explain enough? No.

Well my father came home, saw them and proceeded to beat the crap out of my mom and the boy toy of the night… I forgot his name. I think it was Rick or something.

But then… the bastard turned to me. ME. I didn’t do ANYTHING, and he takes his belt off and beats me.

“You’re mother was cheating on me and you’re sitting here watching?! Why didn’t you come get me, you ungrateful child?!” He yelled at me while hitting me. I still remember it, due to the scar on my face from him punching me.

I suppose you think I’m sitting here crying, don’t you? Nope. I’ve learned not to cry anymore, not to show my weaknesses because I’m not a weak person… and I never will be again.

So my mother decided to get me a therapist…

About six months after we moved here, my mom decided that I had been antisocial long enough. Oh did I forget to tell you? I don’t talk to people at all. I like to think that I’m allergic to people. I have no conversations, no social life… Hell, no LIFE at all. The most contact I have with the outside world is when I’m on MySpace talking to my friends back in New York. They’re back in New York. Lucky bastards.

But anyway, enough about that.

Today, my therapist told me to purchase a diary to “get out all of my bottled up emotions.” Let me tell you something. My emotions were just fine being bottled up, thank you very much. They don’t need to be let out. And that’s exactly what I told her. Actually, I said:

“Hell no.”

But then my ever pleasant mother intervened and told me:

“Buy the fucking diary.”

Oooh, I’m scared. But then, she threatened to take away my allowance. Now that shit was low. You don’t fuck with the cash flow. It’s illegal… in my mind anyway.

Well… I suppose I should end this and draw stupid hearts and stars on the page. But…

No.

I am however, going to end this entry because I honestly have better things to do. Like get on MySpace. Not sitting (or rather laying) here pouring my feelings into this thing. Ugh, I have to turn this into my therapist at the end of the week so she can see my “progress”. Note to Self: Write a happier entry next time. Well, I guess that’s all. Uh, later I guess…

-Tatum Marie