Apr 23, 2010
Well, that certainly went a little wrong. My mind seems to be laughing at me- it likes to humiliate me, almost torture me at some points.
The school phoned on wednesday and, under the influence of the evil Mr Wheeler, demanded I hand my english coursework in or it would be downgraded to a B. It was not to their knowledge that I had basically finished it months ago, but my mother threw it in the bin along with the (literally) hundreds of notes I had made on it.
I had planned since wednesday to just get it done, I told myself it must be done; I accepted that. I tried to get to it, but it's almost like a magnet pulling me away- like flinching away when somebody is injecting me with an evil needle. I put it off, and off and off. The mere thought of it exhausted me. This is why I am sitting here at twenty to twelve at night on friday, procrastinating even more; looking over at the coursework, and shuddering at it's cold disposition.
How do you fix this? I think I must look inside myself far too much to be able to concentrate on the outside. I must take up meditation.
Today was a busy day. I had planned to get the coursework finished, though I knew it wouldn't be in on time. I awoke at ten, and was just tracking the amount of sleep I had when I fell asleep again! I was then awoken by shock- my father was standing over me. Humiliated.
I rushed to get ready- today is the day! Finally after a month of waiting there is a dermatology convention. Today was when the doctors would talk seriously about depigmentation with me. Perhaps this would be the dawning of a disfigured-free life?
I did not expect much, but after a month of waiting, I had hoped for something. Nothing came of that appointment. They said that they firstly did not know the treatment and I would have to contact dermatologists overseas, that secondly nobody on this prisoners' island would be prepared to put their professional reputation on the line, and thirdly they will refer me to a councillor in the meantime. Somebody tell me things will get better? Please.
The only good thing that came from that appointment is that they finally released my photos after a week of demanding them. Now I have the photos of my disease, and I can send them to experts round the globe. Hopefully they will know what to do.
Straight after I had sorted the photos, I headed to the airport. It's time I renew my passport, so I wanted to have my picture taken for it. But firstly we stopped, my journal had arrived! It cost eighty pounds, which is all my money, but it's simply perfect. Though I feel terrible for spending so much money on a journal. I must remember that it is the words I write in it that are important and priceless- not their wrappings. True artists know this.
But anyway, I got into the airport, and found the photobooth. In I stepped and had my pictures taken, two plain ones, a funny profile view, and one of me screaming and crying at the camera, whilst pointing at it and holding my wrapped up journal- I thought this could be the opening picture in my journal. Unfortunately you are only allowed to pick one picture to print; so I let that little masterpiece go, and accepted my plain face (which in all honesty reflected my day) I looked tired, my face is half white/pink and half brown, my hair is very flat and messy. My father said I looked like a paedophille, I agreed. But it's just a passport photo, I guess I'm just gonna have to mess up my hair and look corpse like whenever I travel. I must say though, it is a relief to finally be getting my passport renewed- if I have a way of escaping this prison, maybe it will lessen the harshness of it all.
I finally got back home, and was immediately confronted with my mother "Have you handed that coursework in?!?" I knew I hadn't- I had been out all day. So I said no. She exploded. She shouted, she called me moronic and incredibly lazy. It was not nice, I had tried so hard to overcome my procrastination, and to just get to it. But it was impossible. So impossible. I got angry the more she insulted me, soon I found myself kicking the chair across the room and throwing her bag. I behaved stupidly, but it's very hard to control oneself when you are constantly being told you are a "retarded moron, who cannot do anything, who will end up sweeping the streets because of his idiocy" She got quite violent and picked up the phone, she decided that she was kicking me out. She phoned my father, who would not accept me at his house, and so she became incredibly harsh with him. She screamed "YOU GAVE UP YOUR RESPONSIBILITY FOR HIM BEFORE HE WAS EVEN THREE! HOW DARE YOU BLAME ME FOR HIS BEHAVIOUR! YOU PETTY LITTLE MAN! YOU CAN NEVER FULFILL YOUR RESPONSIBILITIES!" She hung up, and told me to get out. I went till she calmed down.
Now, I suppose I should go and do my english coursework. It needs to be in for tomorrow, so I see myself being up all night for it. They have decided to give me a C grade, because I can't fulfill my responsibilities.
That's shamefully true.