saturday, november 7, 1942
dearest kitty,
mother''s nerves are very much on edge, and that doesn''t bode well for me. is it just a coincidence that father and mother never scold margot and always me me for everything?st night, for example, margot was reading a book with beautiful illustrations; she got up and put the book aside forter. i wasn''t doing anything, so i picked it up and began looking at the pictures. margot carne back, saw'' "her" book in my hands, knitted her brow and angrily demanded the book back. i wanted to look through it some more. margot got madder by the minute, and mother butted in: "margot was reading that book; give it back to her."
father came in, and without even knowing what was going on, saw that margot was being wronged andshed out at me: "i''d like to see what you''d do if margot was looking at one of your books!"
i promptly gave in, put the book down and, ording to them, left the room'' ''in a huff." i was neither huffy nor cross, but merely sad.
it wasn''t right of father to pass judgment without knowing what the issue was. i would have given the book to margot myself, and a lot sooner, if father and mother hadn''t intervened and rushed to take margot''s part, as if she were suffering some great injustice.
of course, mother took margot''s side; they always take each other''s sides. i''m so used to it that i''ve bepletely indifferent to mother''s rebukes and margot''s moodiness. i love them, but only because they''re mother and margot. i don''t give a darn about them as people. as far as i''m concerned, they can go jump in ake. it''s different with father. when i see him being partial to margot, approving margot''s every action, praising her, hugging her, i feel a gnawing ache inside, because i''m crazy about him. i model myself after father, and there''s no one in the world i love more. he doesn''t realize that he treats margot differently than he does me: margot just happens to be the smartest, the kindest, the prettiest and the best. but i have a right to be taken seriously too. i''ve always been the clown and mischief maker of the family; i''ve always had to pay double for my sins: once with scoldings and then again with my own sense of despair. i''m no longer satisfied with the meaningless affection or the supposedly serious talks. i long for something from father that he''s incapable of giving. i''m not jealous of margot; i never have been. i''m not envious of her brains or her beauty. it''s just that i''d like to feel that father really loves me, not because i''m his child, but because i''m me, anne.
i cling to father because my contempt of mother is growing daily and it''s only through him that i''m able to retain thest ounce of family feeling i have left. he doesn''t understand that i sometimes need to vent my feelings for mother. he doesn''t want to talk about it, and he avoids any discussion involving mother''s failings. and yet mother, with all her shorings, is tougher for me to deal with. i don''t know how i should act. i can''t very well confront her with her carelessness, her sarcasm and her hard-heartedness, yet i can''t continue to take the me for everything.
i''m the opposite of mother, so of course we sh. i don''t mean to judge her; i don''t have that right. i''m simply looking at her as a mother. she''s not a mother to me -- i have to mother myself. i''ve cut myself adrift from them. i''m charting my own course, and we''ll see where it leads me. i have no choice, because i can picture what a mother and a wife should be and can''t seem to find anything of the sort in the woman i''m supposed to call "mother."
i tell myself time and again to overlook mother''s bad example. i only want to see her good points, and to look inside myself for what''scking in her. but it doesn''t work, and the worst part is that father and mother don''t realize their own inadequacies and how much i me them for letting me down. are there any parents who can make their childrenpletely happy?
sometimes i think god is trying to test me, both now and in the future. i''ll have to be a good person on my own, without anyone to serve as a model or advise me, but it''ll make me stronger in the end.
who else but me is ever going to read these letters? who else but me can i turn to forfort? i''m frequently in need of constion, i often feel weak, and more often than not, i fail to meet expectations. i know this, and every day i resolve to do better.
they aren''t consistent in their treatment of me. one day they say that anne''s a sensible girl and entitled to know everything, and the next that anne''s a silly goose who doesn''t know a thing and yet imagines she''s learned all she needs to know from books! i''m no longer the baby and spoiled little darling whose every deed can beughed at. i have my own ideas, ns and ideals, but am unable to articte them yet.
oh well. so muches into my head at night when i''m alone, or during the day when i''m obliged to put up with people i can''t abide or who invariably misinterpret my intentions. that''s why i always wind uping back to my diary -- i start there and end there because kitty''s always patient. i promise her that, despite everything, i''ll keep going, that i''ll find my own way and choke back my tears. i only wish i could see some results or, just once, receive encouragement from someone who loves me.
don''t condemn me, but think of me as a person who sometimes reaches the bursting point!
yours, anne
dearest kitty,
mother''s nerves are very much on edge, and that doesn''t bode well for me. is it just a coincidence that father and mother never scold margot and always me me for everything?st night, for example, margot was reading a book with beautiful illustrations; she got up and put the book aside forter. i wasn''t doing anything, so i picked it up and began looking at the pictures. margot carne back, saw'' "her" book in my hands, knitted her brow and angrily demanded the book back. i wanted to look through it some more. margot got madder by the minute, and mother butted in: "margot was reading that book; give it back to her."
father came in, and without even knowing what was going on, saw that margot was being wronged andshed out at me: "i''d like to see what you''d do if margot was looking at one of your books!"
i promptly gave in, put the book down and, ording to them, left the room'' ''in a huff." i was neither huffy nor cross, but merely sad.
it wasn''t right of father to pass judgment without knowing what the issue was. i would have given the book to margot myself, and a lot sooner, if father and mother hadn''t intervened and rushed to take margot''s part, as if she were suffering some great injustice.
of course, mother took margot''s side; they always take each other''s sides. i''m so used to it that i''ve bepletely indifferent to mother''s rebukes and margot''s moodiness. i love them, but only because they''re mother and margot. i don''t give a darn about them as people. as far as i''m concerned, they can go jump in ake. it''s different with father. when i see him being partial to margot, approving margot''s every action, praising her, hugging her, i feel a gnawing ache inside, because i''m crazy about him. i model myself after father, and there''s no one in the world i love more. he doesn''t realize that he treats margot differently than he does me: margot just happens to be the smartest, the kindest, the prettiest and the best. but i have a right to be taken seriously too. i''ve always been the clown and mischief maker of the family; i''ve always had to pay double for my sins: once with scoldings and then again with my own sense of despair. i''m no longer satisfied with the meaningless affection or the supposedly serious talks. i long for something from father that he''s incapable of giving. i''m not jealous of margot; i never have been. i''m not envious of her brains or her beauty. it''s just that i''d like to feel that father really loves me, not because i''m his child, but because i''m me, anne.
i cling to father because my contempt of mother is growing daily and it''s only through him that i''m able to retain thest ounce of family feeling i have left. he doesn''t understand that i sometimes need to vent my feelings for mother. he doesn''t want to talk about it, and he avoids any discussion involving mother''s failings. and yet mother, with all her shorings, is tougher for me to deal with. i don''t know how i should act. i can''t very well confront her with her carelessness, her sarcasm and her hard-heartedness, yet i can''t continue to take the me for everything.
i''m the opposite of mother, so of course we sh. i don''t mean to judge her; i don''t have that right. i''m simply looking at her as a mother. she''s not a mother to me -- i have to mother myself. i''ve cut myself adrift from them. i''m charting my own course, and we''ll see where it leads me. i have no choice, because i can picture what a mother and a wife should be and can''t seem to find anything of the sort in the woman i''m supposed to call "mother."
i tell myself time and again to overlook mother''s bad example. i only want to see her good points, and to look inside myself for what''scking in her. but it doesn''t work, and the worst part is that father and mother don''t realize their own inadequacies and how much i me them for letting me down. are there any parents who can make their childrenpletely happy?
sometimes i think god is trying to test me, both now and in the future. i''ll have to be a good person on my own, without anyone to serve as a model or advise me, but it''ll make me stronger in the end.
who else but me is ever going to read these letters? who else but me can i turn to forfort? i''m frequently in need of constion, i often feel weak, and more often than not, i fail to meet expectations. i know this, and every day i resolve to do better.
they aren''t consistent in their treatment of me. one day they say that anne''s a sensible girl and entitled to know everything, and the next that anne''s a silly goose who doesn''t know a thing and yet imagines she''s learned all she needs to know from books! i''m no longer the baby and spoiled little darling whose every deed can beughed at. i have my own ideas, ns and ideals, but am unable to articte them yet.
oh well. so muches into my head at night when i''m alone, or during the day when i''m obliged to put up with people i can''t abide or who invariably misinterpret my intentions. that''s why i always wind uping back to my diary -- i start there and end there because kitty''s always patient. i promise her that, despite everything, i''ll keep going, that i''ll find my own way and choke back my tears. i only wish i could see some results or, just once, receive encouragement from someone who loves me.
don''t condemn me, but think of me as a person who sometimes reaches the bursting point!
yours, anne