» K A T H L E E N [ dorothεa ] DiXSON-SCHMiDT «
{ » нειιo and welcome. « }
• • •
» say my n a m e ;;
Kathleen ;; Katie ;; Chi
» b l o w out the candles ;;
I was born the afternoon of March 13th.
» time f l i e s by ;;
Age? Obviously not graduated yet. I'm 15 fifteen years-old
» i'm g o o d to know ;;
Cause I'm popular, probably. That is to say, I'm the class clown, thought about joining the Speach/Debate team, and I watch all the other kids squirm with track in the spring. I've got a bad GPA, which I don't care about. Not good enough to get into Oxford, but then again, why would I want to. And not good enough to get a discount on any shiny red convertable, which I already have. Not good enough to impress my friends or family, but good enough to talk my parents into sending me to the store with the credit card, again.
I guess at some point my grades are just letters printed on a paper. On a paper that's going to shape the way I live the rest of my life, but they were good enough for me. As long as I kept them all laughing, it was good enough for me, good enough for them, but never good enough for my parents . . . Then, it all just stopped. And it's not good enough for me anymore.
I walk a lot these days, and I think this year I might try really hard to study, which will still ammount to pretty much nothing with my parents and friends. My teachers will see me as a good student. Maybe I am. But who cares.
I don't go out with my friends so much anymore. I sit at the computer with my music, and talk to them on-line, but we don't talk a lot. Not like we used to. After my mother and father got sick, after the beginning of this summer, this summer which was supposed to be full of freedom and fun, and instead is full of captvity, and saddness. There's nothing left to say about this, no words are really necessary. Either you get it, or you don't, and talking only make it seem lame, unimportant, and self-pittying.
I've heard my parents talk about taking some "time off." A divorce. Maybe. I should see a shrink everyday, but I don't. I don't do anything. I've been told I'm depressed, but I don't need pills to make me feel better about myself, they wouldn't work anyways. Some think I'm chronically ill. Maybe I am. Who cares.
I still go to God camp every summer for a few weeks, but I don't talk during bible study and I don't listen when they leaders talk about God. They're just words, and words seem so lame. Everything is lame and no one really knows the answers anymore and I can't stand it. This week, I'll tell my parents that I don't feel like going to camp anymore. I'll go anyways, but maybe I'll feel more like a rebel.
No, I probably won't. I'll just be quiet and pretend to be good, and then I'll help my Mom with various things she needs done and tell her how nice it is that we can spend these moments together before it's all over. But it won't be. Nothing much is nice anymore. Then she'll pretend to be happy, and pretend she loves life, my dad, my sister, and me. And then she'll go to bed alone. And I'll slip out the side door, pretending the she and my dad can't hear me.
And I'll walk.
Because, mostly, that's what I do these days. I walk, and sometimes, I run.
» s t r a n g e and this is why ;;The hospital where I was born is now a shoe factory, for Addidas. That's pretty much the story of my life.
Our house is really, really messy. That's what my mother says. She gets up at 4: a.m., takes a shower, then she bitches about our house. She makes herself something to eat, watches some t.v. then she bitches some more. By the time I leave for school, she's already back in bed, sound alseep. She stays like that until about noon when she wakes up again, gets some coffee and bitches some more. After that she sits down and watches Judge Judy until I get home from school, when she goes back to her bedroom to watch the last of her show, before going to sleep, yet again. For such a large house, she likes to wander between her room, the livingroom, the dinning room, bathroom, and the kitchen. The only rooms she doesn't venture into is my room, and my sisters room. Well unless she wants to b***h at me for how "unclean" my room is, when compaired to the rest of the house it's a place of divinity.
The only people she doesn't b***h at in our house is my sister, mostly because she's never around, and my father, when he can avoid it. They pretend to be in love, but I haven't ever seen my parents hug in all my life. I mean they kiss, sometimes, but the way you kiss a grandmother with soggy lips and decaying flesh. I think they only share a bedroom to avoid scandal. I don't know why they stay married, other then for money reasons. We all pretend that my mother works a lot, but everyone knows that she's just out by herself, doing what she wants to do, and spending our money.
We used to be forced to go to these family therapy meetings, with my sister when she was in counceling, where we would all come and sit around before talking about how eachother, and how we “feel.” Amanda (my, now, nineteen year-old sister whom after growing up in this family, I have competely ignored for the past five years) would whine about them all the time, while I just plainly said I hated the stupid meetings. I think that was too honest for my mother, though. For all her “upright” values, she’s pretty anti-honesty. We don’t, and never have, talked about sex, or drugs, or the way we really feel. We talk about happy stuff as if it really exist, and long-lost relatives who just had babies, or got married, as if we really care.
We don’t tarnish the home with unclean thoughts, or unclean mouths, or anything that might blemish the wonderful person my mother thinks everyone believes she is, and her family. They don’t, but we don’t talk about that. We don’t talk about anything.
» l o v e ? ;;
YES PLEASE. <3
A real picture of me: HERE!
» [ Mεdortho p h o b i a - ]
is my name.
кiттy катs go mεoω . . .
