Thursday

04/22/86

This whole day I've been feeling miserable. I want to cry, I feel as though something terrible, awful has happened, that it's somehow my fault . . . Not that something has just happened, but more like it happened a while ago, but I was deaf and blind to it until now. Some thing is weighing down on me . . . a sense of . . . what? Pain that I brought to someone, a fault that's all mine, I don't really know . . . and if I do, then I can't really express it . . .

I think that this feeling ties in with my masquerade ball dream . . . it seems to intensify whenever I think about that, whenever I hear that melody, see myself or the doll dancing around and around . . . That breaking, that shattering feeling now seems to be inside me . . . As if, along with the glass, something else was shattered . . . someone's dream or hope . . . something else happened then, something I can't quite understand . . . something unexplainable . . . irreversible . . . and incredibly sad . . . And it's my fault. All mine.

I want to make amends, somehow fix everything . . . but I don't think I can . . . I don't think it's something that can really be fixed . . . like when you break a crystal vase - the pieces are too small to glue back together . . . all you can do is realize that, and sweep them up before you or anyone else gets hurt.

My feelings and thoughts are so unclear. Even though I have gotten better at expressing them, they are still like moths fluttering around a lamp . . . their moves are sudden, sharp, unexpected . . . they go the right way only for a second or two, and then veer off their path . . .

Writing them down usually works well enough to study them, but when I do that, I have to wait a while before I can track where they are going . . . this analogy is getting way too strange . . .

Anyway – I'm kind of disappointed that writing about my feelings hasn't made me feel better at all . . . it usually helps me come back to myself, but this time I only feel worse after writing it all down . . . now it seems more intense, the fault seems heavier . . . I keep thinking that I hurt someone . . . or my actions did, but that's really the same thing . . . who did I hurt? How? Why? I wish I knew . . . maybe it would hurt me in turn, but how could I have hurt someone else so much that it is coming back to haunt me, and not know about it?

Too weird, too strange, and too sad . . . maybe I should go talk to Toby . . . yes, I talk to my baby-brother. I have the comfort of a good listener without judgment or bias. I'm sure Toby understands every single word I say, I'm positive he does, thought I'm not even going to try understanding how . . .

That being the way it is, I don't tell him nearly as much as I write down . . . just the few things that are especially bothering me . . . I mean, I could walk around and talk to all my toys and things, but it's far better having a live audience. My thoughts become even clearer when I say them aloud, helping me understand and deduce more and more . . .

Toby listens carefully, always looking at me, not missing a word of what I say, and seems to understand more my thoughts than the words I use to express them. Even when the words come out all wrong, I see that he understands my point. Don't know how; don't want to go there. I don't usually get much of a reaction from him.

I think the only time I did get one was when I started talking about that mysterious someone who had been helping me solve the Labyrinth . . . After I said all I thought on the subject, my little brother gave me this look – I could swear, if Toby could talk, he would have been saying: "OMG Sara! I can't believe you; you with all your logic still don't get it! Think about it!" I did, but still couldn't come up with any possible answers. Toby knows it though . . . he knows a lot more than me, and understands everything I'm just trying to understand . . . I think that even if he could talk, he wouldn't say anything, and let me figure it out on my own . . . I guess I should be grateful for that, but it's hard to swallow . . . it's just so like Jareth . . .

That question I posed seemed to kind of upset Toby, now that I think about it . . . he was looking sad for the rest of the day . . . I was too wrapped up in my thoughts to notice it then, but I remember it now. I know I will understand though. Eventually, I will. Sometime.

There are now 3 days left until my parents return . . . I think I should rewrite all my notes, or maybe put them into a sort of journal . . . maybe date them, too . . . That way I can try drawing some parallels between thoughts or events . . . Yeah. That's a good idea . . . it will keep me busy and give me another reason to reread them. Again.