I’ve been struggling a lot recently to keep my mood up. It’s not so easy to just choose to be happy like everybody makes it out to be. When I got kicked out, I wasn’t very upset really. It ended up being a late night and a lot of moving. But I didn’t cry. I didn’t cry the next day, or the day after that, or the day after that. I kind of surprised myself by my own lack of emotion. I didn’t cry at my graduation. I didn’t cry when I was discharged. I didn’t cry when my dad told me I was making the biggest mistake of my life by moving in with my mom. I never cried when he called me stupid, immature, fat, “just like your mother”, ungrateful, or even bitch. I didn’t even cry when he said he didn’t want to talk to me anymore. I was hurt, and I got a little choked up, but it was all okay. I pulled myself out before I could actually put the effort into crying.
Now, this past weekend I traveled with my mom back to Canyon to pick up the rest of my stuff. My grandpa was awesome and drove us down in his truck and helped us load everything up and fed us dinner. Darla, my stepmom, tried to lecture me when she saw me about how they were the victims and I was the super villian but I just told her we would pull around to the alley way even though she said the week before that my stuff had been moved out of there. Excuse me, but I have to rant a little here. She has always preached and preached about how she just hates liars. HATES them. She’s lied to me soooo many times. “Your stuff has been moved out of the storage building you need to get it out.” “I’m not trying to be mean.” “I love you.” Get over yourself. Anyways, I was completely fine then. A little annoyed, but fine. I wasn’t hurt over the fact that my dad really didn’t even see me. At least he means what he says though.
I get home Sunday evening and get ready for work. I get off a little after ten. I run to Wal-Mart to get some hangers. I figured having all of my books, I would need to hang all of my clothes so I can put my books somewhere until I get bookcases. After all, I have over a hundred books. I finally get home past eleven and carry all the boxes inside. After opening three of them I’m starting to get pissed off because none of the boxes have had any of my books in them. Then I finally get to the last box. And it had books in it alright. And almost every single one had water damage. And you know what I did? I put my pajamas on and went to bed. I couldn’t do anything but lay down and cry. I felt so defeated.
This morning when I got up I figured I would be able to look at it calmer. But I just cried and seriously debated calling a lawyer. Thankfully my mom talked me out of that, sort of. The thing about my books is that they were always my escape. They made me laugh and cry and happy and sad. I would stay up late waiting for my parents to go to bed so I could turn on a light and read some more. I have a lot of memories that I associate with the books I was reading at that time. I have always had my books. And they were ruined. I don’t even know how to explain to everybody that I don’t want them replaced. I want these. I sounds material and stupid. You don’t have to tell me. But it is what it is. It was all okay until now. Until now, it was just the way the cookie crumbles. Now, it feels like nothing more than a hate crime.
I emailed Darla pictures of my books. I told her I would be paying her nothing out of compensation for them firstly, not giving me anywhere close to all of my books, and secondly for ruining the few I had left. Congratulations. You finally made me cry.