day one

I made it to my dad's. Hoo-rah. With three trashbags full of belongings that he helped me carry into the house while my four step sisters were out. (They still don't know I'm moving in permanently, they think I'm just here for a visit, like normal.) I told him I wanted to wait so they wouldn't know just yet. I'm embarrassed, honestly. They're Hollister-loving, church going, cheerleaders and they're wild but in a safer way than myself. I feel so dirty sometimes; like, tainted or something when I look at them and their lives. I don't want them to know the full truth about me. It makes me feel like a bad person. His fiancee knows, though. The whole story. Well, kind of a half-assed version, but mainly the whole story. She knows I'm out of my mom's because of drugs and suspicions and cut-throat talks. It's her house, though, so she has a right to know, and what's different about her is that she loves me and I can feel it. I love her too. I love this whole family so much. But I can tell I'm going to go crazy sometimes.

It's like a hotel here. There are four rooms and eight people, going on nine when the school year starts including our two dogs. Sisters, Grandma, Uncle, Step Mom, Dad, Puppies, and soon an exchange student from Italy who is moving here to go to high school with my sisters for water polo. She's going to be a foster-kid for a while. Y'know, one of those live-in things. Anyways, it's hella fucking hectic up in here. The girls are great, I really do love them like sisters, but my God (sorry for using your name like that, Buddy), they are like always on their periods or some shit. Fighting, screaming, slapping, stealing clothes. I'm not too used to it full-time, but I guess I'm about to be.

This house is so different from my mom's. Like, polar-opposite different. Even with the craziness, it can be nice, reeeeaaal lovely.

I think I might be bi-polar or something. I know there's something more than depression. I was seeing a pshycotherapist when I lived with my mom and I just got put on meds. My mom and some friends told me I was more flat-lined. Not zombie-like, but not as crazy as before. My ups and downs weren't really there anymore. My mom always told me I had crazy mood swings. Anyways, I stopped taking the meds yesterday. Who knows if they were actually doing anything for me or not because I fucked around on them, which was probably stupid, but she said there was a difference. I didn't notice much. Which reminds me, I still need to tell my therapist I won't be coming back to see her again. And I thought we were making progress. Darn. There's always Long Beach therapists... I guess. I just don't want to suck more money out of this family than needed.

Anyways, it's day one and I already feel oodles better than I did living at my mom's. Maybe that'll change, who knows.

My mom told me today that she thinks I'm going to get sick of it and come back to her house, even though she holds sending me away ove rmy head all the time. Yeah, right. I'm never going back there.