First things first. I wasn't completely happy with the idea of putting my life into a book anyone could just pick up and read. In fact, I was decidedly unhappy with the thought of writing this book, until i thought about how much easier it would have been if I had only read about someone, anyone with similar circumstances to me. That is why i'm publishing this diary. Not so that snotty, spoiled, rich white girls can look down on me. So that someone else get the help I so desperately needed. Now, without further ado, let's go back in time seven years; to when i was barely eight years old.
Dear Diary,
I am eight years old, and I learned a new word. The word I learned today was hate and it resonates with me on a cellular level.
I hate that our apartment is tiny and people think I am a bad person because of my skin. I hate the fact that I can't invite my friends over to my "house" because Ms Sheila is a druggie and Mr Pierce is a paranoid schizophrenic. I hate the fact that my mamma has to work all the time. I hate the fact that everyone I thought was my friend has started to pull away from me because of their parents. I hate that I'm alone all of the time, and most importantly, I hate myself. I hate myself for never being good enough for my extended family to love me, and that I am so ungrateful of my situation. I hate my skin, even as mamma coos over the caramel chocolaty color. I hate my hair, as people randomly come up to me and run their fingers through my curls. I hate everything, and mamma isn't enough anymore.