Though I did not meticulously describe my emotions, I can recall the feelings which surrounded various entries, whether they were of selfishness, anger, fear, or otherwise. Perhaps I was initially scared to vent my frustrations lest my book be read by searching eyes; written word is no longer secret, and I trusted my memory far better than my hope of privacy, and therefore rarely indulged in expressing confidences unless they were of the positive sort or so justifiable that their truth, though poignant, could not have been denied even by the subject. Jan. 4, 1976... I got my make-up on...went to church,then to a restaurant. It's a real pretty day outside and the sun is shining through my windows. I just love my room. Today I'm going to work on my corduroy purse some more. I don't like any boys and I'm glad of that. I'm probably weird not wanting a boy to "go with" but I'm not ready yet. After all, I'm just 14 yrs. old. (2 relatives) came over and had supper. I came into my room because I felt sick. Finished my purse...I feel better now. That's good! Throughout the diary, it became obvious that an internal struggle was present which haunted me at the time and annoys me at the present; nevertheless, it existed, as perhaps it does within all youth. That to which I allude is the battle between independence and dependence, the conflict waged by one mind against two wills; that of the adult and the child. One of the most prevalent emotions I fostered throughout 8th grade was insecurity. It was a by-product of sickness and frequent aloneness. Desiring to live unnoticed, I began to feel guilty about the kindnesses I received. I wondered whether I deserved such special treatment; when I voiced my feelings to my parents, they quickly pointed out that people wanted to do things for me since my life was tainted by an illness. "You don't have your health, and that's the greatest wealth on earth." I nodded at their statement, yet something still seemed amiss; I finally discovered that my guilt was fueled by jealous acquaintances that rather begrudged my attentions. Jan. 6, 1976... I'm trying to "use up" my cologne and perfume so everybody won't keep saying "how much I have." Another acquaintance would continually quiz me, wondering where I got the money to buy things as she glanced around my bedroom. My allowance was healthy, to be certain, especially if I drank my quota of milk each day; however, the earnings I acquired were determined by my parents, not me, and I was expected to use the money wisely. I often deposited portions in the bank, saving diligently for a nice purchase. Otherwise, my funds were transformed into stamps for letters, gifts, appointments for my room, or movie tickets. I didn't feel frivolous; whereas I was given an allowance, my friends had to twist their parents arms for their desires. It didn't appear to me that they were deprived.