I'll never be like you want me to. I'm not like that. You, of all people, should know that, dad.

This post is a tribute to my dad. If you haven't seen the title, you might say, oh, that's so sweet!
Really, don't. It's not.
I don't mean to complain or whine. It's just that this is the only way I can really get this off my chest.
His girlfriend. I have a HUGE problem with her. It seems as if the only way he's happy is if he lets his daughter down. I thought he'd see her for what se really is instead of the mask she puts on, hiding her from him. I've always been able to tell what people are like- I get this chill-like thing running down my spine when I don't trust them and they don't deserve to have the trust of anyone. If they're genuinely good people, I feel warm and fuzzy. That's like my mom's new boyfriend, Joel. He rocks. But my mom's ex Tommy I felt an automatic instinctual warning telling me not to trust him.
Guess what? I was right. He read my mom's email! It sounds really minor, but me and mom think he's done a lot more than that. Same thing with her other ex Moose- he was okay, but I still felt a little wary around him. I thought then that it was just because he and my mom were sharing a bedroom, if you know what I mean. He left her and stomped on her heart.
Now, with my dad's girlfriend, I feel that chill whenever I look into her cold brown eyes. I'm getting a chill just thinking about her freezing eyes, even out here on my porch in the unseasonably nice weather! She's trying to change who I am. She offered to redo my dad's room which has very recently become mine, and she came back from Target (Target! I'm a Hot Topic chick-not Target!) with a pink beanbag chair, a pink fuzzy blanket, a pink shag rug (This isn't the 70s, bitch!) and a whole bunch of crap I haven't touched since I hauled them into my room. That's not me. Me is black wallpaper, drawn curtains, black rugs, black, red and purple are my favorite colors. I've ALWAYS hated pink. I've never been a frilly, girlie girl. I've lied to myself, told myself I was just like all the other kids. Bottom line is, I'm not. I'm ME, not Brenda or Ray or Nick or Mallory or anyone else- I'm me. (no offence to anyone on the list, of course, except possibly Brenda) I'm Goth flute/guitar/bass/drums/piano/singer player with a crush on her best guy friend, pale sapphire blue eyes, curly blond hair and some emoness that's almost gone now who sleepwalks and has nightmares/terrors. She wants me to be her. I'm not. I'll never be like how she wants me to be. We're polar opposites and that's just how it is. In our house there's only a few ways things go- The Sloan and Dad way, and the Grace and Josh way. I'm the odd woman out- I've always been. Normally I'll slap on a fake smile and do whatever they want me to, but after they go to sleep, I wrap my knees to my chest, wrapping my arms around my legs, letting myself cry out all the frustration, anger and sadness. When I was younger I did cut-once. I felt so upset, so angry at no one but myself. The scar still lies on the inside of my wrist, a constant reminder of who I was and why I was that way... why I have to hide my face. She tries to tell me to speak up. I can't. I'm physically incapable of doing so. I just can't. She down her nose a me as I yank sweater sleeves over that deep scar. The mark of my life- how alive I was once, and how I'm begining to learn to live again. I'll never be the goofy kid I once was-she died the day everyone forgot I was alive.
That's all for today. I'm crying so hard that I can hardly see the computer screen. It's like, writing this, opening that scar again.