. ; I think I broke it.
I think I'm going to think here. It might be long or short or everywhere, but damnit, this journal needs something deep after all the crap I've poured in this summer.
I am tired. I got pulled into one angstpit earlier this year, as we all know. Everyone knows by now. It strained me a hell of a lot, it pulled down my love of everything and put me into a dark place. It stressed out my boyfriend, my parents and my pets, and if I remember correctly some of you guys were really there for me, and cared. And now it's happening again, and the scary thing is, this pit's been pulling me in so long I haven't noticed. It's like a vast whirlpool that was lazily sucking on me, and suddenly, I'm at the edge of the water and a few hundred sharp, pointy rocks. Twelve. Can you believe it? When I was twelve I knew this was going to happen. I was resigned to the fact that someday, my parents wouldn't be together. Back then I really didn't want them to split up, it was my nightmare. Now... I accept it. I can see the strain it's putting on them, the fact that my bulldog-rock of a father is reacting to this like he did the days leading up to my grandfather's death. I can see him trying to be rational and telling her he'll try anything, and her saying that it's gone on to long. The only thing I hold against her is that, if she told us all earlier, it could be fixed. We might not have to deal with this. But we do, that's what we have to deal with, and that's the reality. That's the right now part that's making me tired and ill. I need a Rolaid, but I know my dad is in a mood. If I ask where he put them, he'll ask me why I feel sick. He's not trying to be cruel, but he's like any other human: life first, survival first, of me. Not the next generation, myself. I don't blame him in the slightest. I know that he was pushy and snappy. My entire family is argumentative. If my mom said something sarcastic, cynical, stupid, my dad jumped on her. And they don't let up; they both want the last word, and keep at it like fighting pit bulls until one retreats into the darkness. Crying, brooding, whatever. It ends the same way every time. I understand that this, yep, this really is the end. This is that thing that was my nightmare come to pass. This is Fish's paws unravelling around her, and my brain attempting to unscrew itself. Betcha never knew the Fish really isn't considered me, just a character to represent me. Two entities. But that's not the point. The point is, it hurts, whether I can deal with it or not. I can tell that this is the end. My mom... she's like everyone. She doesn't want to stay here, but she's afraid of what's out there. She doesn't want to live trapped in a loveless relationship- now that's she's unleashed her little demons- but she's afraid of being without someone. That's a terrible fear, I know. It hurts, but there were times I used to wonder, "Am I with Robb 'cause it's easier?" Obviously not, it's a fuck of a lot harder, but that's the scariest thought ever. Do I really still love them, or am I just afraid of being without them? Me, I find that more terrifying than the prospect of death, of suicide, of addiction, of attack. But I know, by next week or perhaps the week after, this will be over. Either they won't be together, and I'll have to settle back into Quebec, or they will be, and the air will be tense and... thick. I'll be wading through Jell-O on weekends. My dad kinda gave me this resigned look before, when he was blowing up the air mattress (something never done before, even in the most dangerous of arguments) and said, "You know, if we move back to Quebec, you're not staying at Robb's all the time." He's not coming home next week, just to avoid my mother and give her some time. Or, he might take the week off if she delivers an answer we fear, just to make the house more presentable. I think he'll pour all he can, even using credit cards that he hates using, just to make a good profit on this home so that we can all get a fair new start. And despite everything, I'm afraid I won't want to leave. This house has grown on me, like a fungus, even though I still call Quebec home. I'm afraid I missed too much there to fit in again. Whereas everyone has grown and changed in that environment, I haven't. Everyone down here acts like eighth graders down there. I fear change, and this? Too big for me.
I'm tired.