No one understood learning disabilities there, but I didn’t care. All those boys. Who cared about anything else.
I began writing about those boys, those young men. I kept their names not only on the inside of those boards but scribbled everywhere on the outside. A diary is a very personal thing, and these writings were very typical scribbles of a teenagers discoveries of boys, boys, boys, and school failures.
Oh, there were other things. Friendships. My grandma. Once two acquaintances burned in a house fire. I remember saving the newspaper clippings and taping them on my pages. I didn’t understand a lot. Perhaps whatever I was went beyond socially inept.
And of course, I whined about my over-educated parents on page after page. My drunken parents. I counted their drinks. I wrote how cruel they were, and I vowed I would never be like them. Never. They vowed I needed an education; I couldn’t understand what I found in school. Life wasn’t simple for a teenager with learning disabilities and alcoholism herself.
I cried, I whined, I wrote endlessly. My teen aged angst filled page after page, and the pages survived my joining the army, marriage, two kids, and only after separating from my first husband in did they vanish into the fire that consumed the Garrison House. From a continuing madness into a cleansing….yet I still have the notebook.