First of all, I want to get something straight: this is a JOURNAL and not a diary. My psychologist suggested I write one to vent my frustrations.
My father, Frank was a control freak. Even when I was in my 30’s, Dad still used to resort to bullying tactics to dictate my appearance. That’s why I was the only kid in school who dressed like a nerd.
A few of my “friends” picked on me because of the clothes that I wore. But they stopped as soon as I kicked the crap out of one of them.
I remember one day, when I was in high school. I’ve decided to wear a pair of ripped jeans and Dad lost his shit.
“What the fuck are you wearing?” Dad asked.
“This is what everybody wears,” I said.
“So if everybody jumped from a bridge, would you do it too?”
“If it looked fun, I would.”
“Actually, you already look like a crossbreed between a faggot and a bum.” I’m not defending my father’s homophobic words, but he was a baby boomer in the 1990’s. “You will never get anywhere in life dressed like that. Your appearance is the only thing that matters these days. So, you go upstairs and get changed.”
That was the end of that conversation. I changed my clothes and I went to school. When I got home, things got worse between me and my father. I came home to discover that my Nintendo was broken.
“What happened?” I asked calmly.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Dad screamed. “You selfish little brat. Look at you! Your belongings are the only thing that you care about. It’s no wonder why your mother left us.”
“Don’t ever talk to me like that again!” I screamed. “You’re the reason Mom left us, you’re the reason George and Uncle Scott don’t visit don’t want to visit you anymore. You broke something that I paid for, with the money that I made from my shitty after school job, and you’re flipping out at me?”
In case you’re wondering, my father’s father, Frank Moody Sr was killed in the Korean War when my father was an infant. George, my grandfather’s former army buddy, stepped in to take care of my father. Even though George and my grandmother, Sofia never got married, they had a son together, Scott.
“I’m proud of you.”
“Jesus Murphy! You’re crazier than I thought.”
“No, Larry. You’ve finally stood up to me. Let me ask you, do your teachers treat you like crap?”
“Kind of. Mr. Dinn does, at least.”
“Exactly. You won’t get anywhere in life if you let people treat you like crap. If you can stand up to me, you can stand up to anybody.”
“Actually, I did stand up to those douche bags that made fun of me because of my clothes.”
At first, I thought this was just an excuse for Dad to bully me. But I didn’t find out until later in life that Dad was right. You can’t let people walk over you.
“Although I don’t want you wearing ripped jeans.”
That night, I went to the party with a few friends. I was sitting on the couch, when some blonde fell into my lap in a drunken stupor.
“Hey,” the girl said.
“Hey,” I said.
“What’s your name?”
“I’m Martha. Where are you from?”
“I’ll be back in a minute. I gotta piss.”
Martha was so drunk that she fell to the floor, trying to get up from the couch, and two other girls carried Martha out of the house. One of them was her twin. I thought that would be the only time I would see Martha, but I was wrong.
Two weeks later, I saw Martha again at a local boutique.
“Hey, Larry,” Martha said.
“Hey,” I said.
“What are you doing here?”
“I’m looking for a tux for the prom.”
“I’m looking for a dress for my prom. When’s your prom?”
“The same night as yours. We go to the same school.”
“Really? Why I haven’t noticed you around before?”
“I have no idea.”
“So, are you going to the prom with anybody?” Martha asked.
“No. Are you?”
“I was gonna ask Sean out. But do you wanna go with me instead?”
“We barely know each other.”
“So what? It’s just the prom.”
“ Alight, then. Sure.”
“Wicket. See you in school on Monday.”
I met up with Martha in the school cafeteria that Monday, and we made plans for the prom. Sitting at the table would be me, Martha, Monica (Martha’s twin sister), and Emily (Martha and Monica’s friend)
At the prom, I wore a black tux, and Martha wore a puffy teal dress.
“You really love that color, don’t you?” I asked.
“It’s my favorite color,” Martha said. “Come on, let’s dance.”
Martha and I danced the night away. Toward the end of the night, though, Martha brought me outside, to the side of the school where nobody would see us. I thought we were going to make out, but Martha just wanted to smoke some weed.
“Wanna puff?” Martha asked.
“I don’t smoke,” I said.
“There’s no harm is smoking weed, but okay. So, what are your plans after graduation?”
“Ever hear of the internet? I want to design websites for a living. I heard there’s a lot of money in that.”
“What’s a website?”
“I’ll explain later. What about you? What do you wanna do?”
“I want to start a business someday. I just don’t know what kind of business.”
“Sounds wicket. Would want to have kids someday?”
“Yeah, but not anytime soon.”
“You can’t have kids if you smoke weed.”
“When I’m ready to have kids, I’ll stop. It’s not like I’m a drug addict.”
“Weed is not a drug.”
“Okay, if you say so.”
Martha was not even half-way done smoking her joint and she just snuffed it out. Then she shoved her tongue down my throat. As cliché as this sounds, that was the moment I realized that Martha was the one for me.
“I tell you what,” Martha said. “Every time I smoke a joint, or a drink a beer, or do any other drug, just take it away from me.”
“Why?” I asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe there are more important things in life. Or you can just let me be.”
Once again, Martha shoved her tongue down my throat.
After we graduated, Martha and I dated. Over time, Martha slowly quit doing drugs. Of course, things were not smooth sailing. We fought a lot.
“I’m not doing drugs,” Martha said.
“You’re still smoking weed,” I said.
“Weed is not a drug!”
“And yet, you keep harassing people for weed money.”
“So? I pay people back.”
“Really? I gave you a loan of $20.00 last week, and then you asked me for a loan of $10.00
without paying me back.”
Martha pulled her wallet out of her purse and she threw money on my Dad’s coffee table.
“That’s $30.00 for you,” Martha said. “Are you happy now? Is that all you care
about, is money?”
“Is that all you care about, is weed?”
Martha stormed out of the house in a fit of rage.
EMILY B’s DIARY
Monica and I have shared an apartment for a few weeks, but it was the biggest mistake of my life. Monica was a good roommate, but I had a crush on her since grade 5. Her extreme shyness is what attracted me to her. She was a mystery that I wanted to solve. Whether if it’s the year 1993 or 2018, it’s almost impossible to tell your friend that you like her, especially when you’re gay and your friend is straight.
After doing much soul-searching, I’ve decided to tell Monica how I felt one evening. But there was a bigger issue to deal with. Martha came to visit us.
“Hey, Martha,” I said.
“I need a place to sleep,” Martha said.
“What’s on the go?” Monica asked.
“I got into a huge fight with Larry. It’s all because of drugs.”
“Come in,” I said.
Martha sat down on the couch. Suddenly, it looked like Martha was having a heart attack. I immediately called 911 and Monica called her parents.
When the paramedics arrived, they told us that Martha had a seizure.
Eventually, we all arrived at the hospital, except for Larry.
“Have you called Larry?” I asked.
“I don’t know his number,” Monica said.
I sat on the couch, watching TV, trying to get my mind off of Martha. I remember thinking to myself, how could I possibly be with a drug addict? But there was something that drew me to her. It was like fate wanted us to be together. I didn’t realize how right I was.
Dad came home and he gave me a dirty look.
“Vacuum the carpet!” Dad yelled.
“Okay,” I said. “Chill out!”
“Don’t you tell me to chill out! I work all day, and the house is the fucking mess. That’s because you don’t do enough around here.”
“If you don’t like how I do things, then do it yourself.”
“Don’t talk to me like that again, you little shit. It’s a good thing that you found a woman, because you can’t cook, you can’t clean, and you can’t do laundry. But can a drug addict do that stuff?”
Dad’s personal attack toward Martha, combined with his sexist comment pissed me so much, I punched him in the face.
“Get the fuck out!” Dad screamed.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I will.”
I ran out of the house and I went to Martha’s, but nobody was home. I then went to
Emily’s apartment, but nobody was there either. As soon as I left the apartment building I saw Monica and Emily walking to the building.
“Larry, I tried to call you, but I didn’t know your number,” Monica said.
“Where’s Martha,” I asked.
“She’s in the hospital.”
“Martha had a seizure. I think it was because+ she O.D’d. She’s going to be okay.”
“I gotta go see her.”
“Visiting hours are over.”
“Do you want to come in and talk?” Emily asked.
Soon after I went inside, I explained what to Monica and Emily what happened from the fight Martha and I had.
“I don’t think she’ll ever change,” Monica said.
“Martha’s gonna need all the support she can get,” Emily B said.
“Maybe she will. The more pressure we put on Martha to stop, the less likely she’ll quit.”
The next day, I visited Martha at the hospital.
“How are you feeling?” I asked.
“A little better,” Martha asked.
There was a brief silence between us.
“Being in the hospital really woke me up,” Martha said.
“Does that mean you’re gonna get off the drugs?” I asked.
“Yes. I’ll go to rehab as soon as possible.”
“I thought you gave up the booze and the drugs.”
“I only threw out a joint. I didn’t say that I was giving up drugs. Well, now I’m saying it. Larry, I’m done with drugs.”
“By the way, I got you something.”
I gave Martha a photo album. Most of the pictures were of me and her.
“I love it,” Martha said.
“Happy birthday,” I said.
Eventually, Martha and I moved into an apartment together and Martha was pregnant.
During that time, Martha worked part-time while I worked 60 hours a week. In 1995,
Martha gave birth to a son, whom we nnamed Steve. Five years later, we moved into a house and we had a daughter, whom we have named Emily.