Thursday, January 24, 1997
I filled out an entire week of peanut butter sandwich meal requests. I think I need to eat something besides chocolate. Tasha copied me. That's two things I know about my new friend now: she likes peanut butter and she always drinks two percent milk with her meals. Listen to me...a part of me wonders if I should be ashamed, popular girl Buffy writing down what some thirteen year old kid likes, but mostly, I can see myself changing and I like it. Popular kids aren't the only ones worth being friends with...by now I should know.
Group is freaking me out even worse, but I promised the doctor I wouldn’t run out of the room this time. He said that if I didn’t see…vampires, I guess I can write it in the past tense… anymore, he might get me home as early as Monday. I must put this away as we start; don't want to be rude. Although with all the noise in the room right now, I doubt my having a diary out will matter all that much. Okay, being good now.
Yikes. Now I know why Tasha's in here. I never thought that voices inside someone's head could be that loud, that persistent and physically real. It makes me wonder things about the things I see...but I'm not going there at the moment. I'm having enough trouble with everyone else's story.
Before the group, today was the first day I could say I was more annoyed than terrified.
I can see Mom and Dawn in hallway entrance, impatiently biding their time until they let the visitors in. Dawn has something she wants to tell me, but I don't think Mom will give her a chance this time, at least from the looks Mom is shooting at Dawn. Great; is Mom going to start giving me the third degree about the things I think about? Must go again.
At least I didn't see any, uh, asbestos coming through the doors as the visitors leave. It's hard to keep up the front when my family is here, but the nights are worse. Tasha and I are sitting at one of the tables in the common room now. She's drawing something, and I'm writing in this for the night. When the nurses saw the diary, they gave me a whole pile of lists to write about. I don't want to do that, though. This is the one place where I get to be just Buffy, and not, well all those other things.
Right now Buffy desperately needs to see a hair stylist. It's starting to scare me. Even worse than the things that some of these other crazy people are doing...goodness, I didn't think it was possible to do that with puzzle pieces and game cards!
My name is Buffy. I'm a student at Hemery High, and the whole yearbook is full of pictures of me. I know how to dress. I'm popular. I'll be popular just as soon as they let me back. I see things that are real. I see attractive boys who aren't nurses (at least during visiting hours, when they're really present), and I'm going to have a chance to do something about it. Soon.
And that little exercise in positive thinking is really helping me feel better—sarcastic voice here, since I can't do that very well in my diary. I'm going to bed.
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