Get this. My new creative writing teacher at my new horrible school is making us keep a journal. (She called it a diary, just like they all do, but I'm sticking with my previous statements about diaries.) She seemed thrilled when I told her I already had one. I'm glad one of us was.
The prompt today was, ironically: Tell about a trial you've experienced recently and how it made you feel.
Yuck. Touchy feely feelings again. But this is really ironic timing. It's only been a few weeks since we moved down here, and mom asked me yesterday why I've been so cranky. I'm wondering why she finds this to be a new occurrence, since I haven't exactly been the cheeriest person for a while now. I told her a few too many break ups and back stabs had put me over the edge. Somehow she didn't believe me. (Maybe she really did pay attention, and had known I'd never had a boyfriend or friends I let close enough to betray me....) I finally just told her I wasn't ever happy at home. She and dad had always been weird, and I didn't fit in. I wasn't stupid. If she had any brains at all this wouldn't surprise her.
She had brains. Turns out she had more in hers than I had in mine, too. Out come the tears and the truth. Guess what, Journal? I'm adopted. You'd think I'd be the one to cry, right? But no, mom (foster mom?) took care of the water works. I just yelled some more, and mostly shut down. The whole thing is stupid. Who adopts a kid and then thinks it's okay not to tell them?
Whatevs. I spend a lot of time at school now, because, impossibly, it's gotten worse at home. I'd rather be avoiding homework under the wonderfully nosey staff of Icarus Prep than with a lonely, secret keeping "mom." It's been a long week.
Jade
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