Diary 37

Dear Diary,

I’m beginning to realize that Anne Frank, Zlata Filipovic, and I have a

lot in common. We all seem to be trapped in some cage was the basement

she had to use for shelter, away from bombs. My cage is my own house.

Like Anne and Zlata, I have an enemy who is gung-ho for dictatorship: my

father. He doesn’t truly fit the role of a father in my perspective, so I refer to

him as my sperm donor. James doesn’t allow us to call him “dad” or

“father” or any of those other sentimental, lovey-dovey names. He says the

titles aren’t his name so we can’t call him that.

Unfortunately, I can’t relate with Anne Frank and Zlata Filipovic on the

subject of their fathers. From what I’ve read, their fathers seemed to really

love them. I can, however, commiserate with them on the situations they

were forced to endure. For example, I can easily put James in Hitler’s

shoes, and our family in the roles of the Jews. Although not quite like the

war Hitler started, the war in my house was also created by ignorance and

stupidity. Like all wars, there is an enemy. There are innocent victims,

destruction, senseless violence, displacement, and a winner and a loser.

I’ve read about the monstrous things that were done in the

concentration camps in WWII. I’ve read about how they would torture,

starve, and mutilate people’s bodies to something that was not recognizable

as a human being. I watched my mother being beaten half to death by James

and watched as blood and tears streamed down her face, which was also

unrecognizable. I felt useless and scared, furious at the same time knowing

that I could do nothing to help her. I watched him steal money from my

mother’s purse and sell our belongings for drugs.

I’m sad to say he is the person I’m supposed to look up to for good

solid fatherly advice. I can still feel the sting from the belt on my back and

legs as he violently lashed me in his usual drunken state of mind. It’s not

likely that I’ll be asking him for advice any time soon.

I can relate to Anne and Zlata. Like them, I have a diary, I write about

how it feels to have disgust and hatred centered directly on you because of

who you are. All I can do is wait for my mother to get rid of him. I’m

surprised she hasn’t already. She can be a strong woman if she puts her

mind to it. I know that I will never let a man put his hands on me, won’t

ever tolerate that kind of abuse from anyone. I guess I’ll have to wait for the

war to end like Anne and Zlata did, except I won’t die or get taken

advantage of. I’m going to be strong.

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