A to Z - 1. A Journal

In the bedroom, on the far shelf, rests a set of old-style composition notebooks. A couple of them have yellow sticky-notes poking out at odd places. The story told in their pages isn’t just mine or yours. It’s ours. For the most part, though, you did the writing. These yellow notes are just the few places where you needed to know that something else was happening, things you didn't know about then, but I did – things had gone unsaid. These old journals don’t get read so much anymore. Time moves on, and the important stuff is what gets remembered. But it’s all there, our story, and that’s important, too.

 (***)

April 29

My name is Stefan Anders Ericsson. It’s a Swedish name. Today is my 16th birthday, and this notebook is my present to myself. I don’t really deserve a present, I guess. I never have, really. Dad says that I’m a bad kid, and he means it. I guess he has a point, since I made Mom leave us when I was eight. Anyway, we don’t celebrate birthdays. But I had a little over a dollar left from the money I found a couple of days ago, and I saw this in the drugstore on sale, and I just had to have it. I can’t write in it every day, but it is the closest thing I can get to a diary. Still, this notebook will really piss Dad off if he finds it. He’ll tell me it’s a waste of time and money on a stupid kid like me.

It’s the first new thing I can remember that belongs to me.

Most kids in school think I’m stupid, but I can write well enough. They just don’t know me very well. On second thought, maybe I am stupid. Dad calls me that plenty, and maybe I’m dumb in some ways. Maybe kids think I’m stupid because I keep my mouth shut. I never say anything, if I can help it. I try to fade into the background if I can, and just watch things happen. When other people notice me at all, they make fun of my second-hand clothes or my bad haircut or that I don’t have the stuff I’m supposed to have for class. Dad says I don’t deserve all the fancy extra things other kids bring to school, so he makes me scrounge for stuff. For instance, the best time to stock up on pens and pencils is in the first few weeks of classes in the fall. Lots of people drop a pen on the floor and forget to pick it up. They don’t worry, there’s more at home. Their loss is my gain. By the third week of September, I’ll have enough dropped pens and pencils collected to get me through the school year, if I’m careful and don’t write too much. It’s the same with a lot of school supplies, though I’ve had to dodge the whole calculator thing all year long.

The best thing about this diary is that I can write about the things I would talk to someone about if I had a friend to hang out with. Lunch means being alone – my table is always empty, and I like it that way. Today, I got to write in this book instead of rushing through my bread and apple and then trying to disappear. I can tuck myself way into this corner of the cafeteria, and I doubt anyone will know I’m here.

Anyway, Dad wants me home right away after school, so it isn’t like I can do things with other kids once classes are done. He says I have to work in the house or around the garage to make up for all the problems I cause.

Writing about this is hard and easy at the same time – hard, because some stuff is really tough to talk about, even with myself. Easy, because I don’t have to tell another real person – just the blank page in front of me. Blank pages don’t judge. Dad says it’s my fault Mom isn’t around anymore. I can barely remember her. She had deep brown eyes, and she smiled for me when we were alone together. But she also cried a lot, and she fought with Dad over and over again, though it was usually at night. I could hear them, and I could hear Dad getting physical with her when he got mad. The next day, she’d be really quiet, and move slowly around the house for a while. But it wouldn’t last, then she’d be OK for a few days. Then they’d be back to fighting like cats and dogs.

And then one day, she just wasn’t there anymore.

Dad says they were fighting about me, about how bad I was, and all the trouble I caused. She up and left in the middle of the night. Just like that. So, here’s question number one: why did Mom run away? I can’t help asking – was it really me?

The first time I asked Dad why she left without saying goodbye, he got seriously angry and just backhanded me across the face. That wasn’t the first time I’d been hit – I’d been whipped across my butt any number of times before that. But that was the first time I got whacked in the face, and my neck and teeth were sore for a week after that.

It’s not the last time I’ve been hit either, and I guess I deserved the beatings Dad gave me. It’s not like I’m good like other kids are. I always seem to cause problems, by being too late, or too lazy, or too timid, or too something. If I finish my work list and stay quiet, I can usually avoid getting a whipping.

Everyone at school thinks I’m a clumsy fool. It’s the best way to explain the occasional bruise or mark that sometimes shows. Once in a while, I’ll fall into something like a desk or a locker on purpose, just to have an excuse to have a bruise. Usually, Dad gets me on the back or butt, so that nobody can see, especially if I wear a long sleeve shirt or a hoodie.

But it’s harder and harder to avoid getting thrashed these days. The work lists are getting longer, and Dad is getting edgier, and meaner. Almost anything sets him off. For example, yesterday, he came home from the quarry about six PM. He took one look at the dinner I made – it was on the list – and started telling me I’d gotten it all wrong. Somehow, the peas were too mushy and the potatoes too salty, or maybe the meat was underdone. I really don’t remember. He started yelling about how I’d been wasting the food he put on the table, and how ungrateful I was. Dad’s a big guy, and it’s usually better to apologize and back down with him, but it didn’t work this time. He just got madder and madder, and before I knew it, I was getting beat up pretty hard.

At least he didn’t get out his belt this time. When he gets out the belt, I know it’s going to be bad. Anyhow, I curled up in a little ball to keep the kicks from hurting too much. I just lay there on the floor for a while after he got it out of his system. Later on, he dragged me to my room and threw me onto the floor in my bedroom. I managed to get into bed somehow. I remember the door slamming.

It hurt, but I deserved it. I ruined dinner. I don’t really know why it’s so hard get things right, why I can’t be good person, why I mess things up way too often. I just wish I didn’t manage to screw up so much.

It was no fun getting to school this morning. When the alarm went off, I dragged myself out of bed so I could get the morning chores done and the breakfast made. I ached, and if I stepped wrong, I got serious pain shooting across my sides and ribs. I dressed in my usual t-shirt and long sleeved denim jacket. They hide the scars pretty well. I’m glad the jacket is a little too big, so the bruises don’t rub so much.

Still, the ride on the bus was agony. Every bump and pothole hurt.

Things got better as the day went on. Moving around helped some. That and I skipped out during my study hall and went into the drugstore for some aspirin.

I doubt anyone here at Carlsberg Central High School noticed I was missing.