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Excerpts From my Childhood Journal.

Mommy has been extra grumpy, and at the same time she's been acting way more sadder. I know that crossing the border of Mexico was bad, but I didn't see anything bad about it Tons of people crossed the border everyday. Most grown-ups have a regular job, and they don't have to be hiding from a monster. A monster that momma calls the Border Patrol. I know she's been scared for a long time, but I have a feeling that something else is wrong. Something much worse that gives me frights like singing,"Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary." next to a mirror.

It's a dark night with sticky air. It's one of those nights where mommy is mad. She's yelling at grandma again. Mommy's slamming the doors of the house and she's gone for what feels like forever. She finally walks outta the room and I see her suitcases. "Annie get in the car!" she yells as I jump up in terror. It scares me when Momma talks that way. Grandma joined us in the car. They say that we're going to the border of Mexico, but the car stops in a field. Geez we're in the middle of nowhere and the Boogie man could get us! Again Grandma and Momma are fighting. This time it sounds like it's about me. It's something about who I'm gonna stay with now. Are they sick of me? Maybe they don't like me anymore. Grandma turned on the car, then drove to the border of Mexico; and now we're all outside of the car. Momma kissed my forehead and says,"Goodbye kiddo. Always remember I love you."

If mommy really loves me then why is she leaving? I could run to her and throw myself at her. Begging Mommy not to leave, to stay, and to not worry and be happy; but I'm standing her like a dummy without words. My mommy walks away and something tells me that I outta do something about it. What can I do? Anything might stop her, but I don't even have the guts to lift up my pinkie. No I don't think I can do anything about it. It's too late and the bad thing is here. It's a time where you can't ask,"What if?" because sometimes the damage is done; and there is nothing you can do.

Authors Note: This morning I explored the remains of my ancient basement, and I discovered the first journal I every had. It was a small red compact notebook that slowly deteriorated over the years. What was once a bright red now faded into a hideous garnet red. This was one of my earliest writings that goes back to April 2005. For one thing, this journal gives a clear explanation on why one of my many phobias of fears is abandonment.