Nov. 25, 1976... Thanksgiving. I really didn't eat too much, I couldn't. I didn't feel too great. I was really depressed. Went outside to shoot some arrows. Tracy came out and we had a big talk about things... I was becoming more susceptible to mood fluctuation as the year wore away, and knew that my depression was part of reaching adulthood. Every textbook revolving around the subject of health made such statements, underlining the fact that one's teenage years were often the most difficult to bear. Instability appeared to be the rule rather than the exception as my body and mind secured various realms of adulthood yet failed to grasp the elusive wholeness of maturity. Moments of bliss could be attacked by the shadow of torment and indecision. I wished to be the self-sufficient master of my life, yet I first needed to define my beliefs and pinpoint my destination. I wanted to make headway, to abandon the circular path of dependence and strike my own course through shaded lairs of uncertainty. One area in which I had little uncertainty about my inevitable goal was the desire for my own home. Whenever I visited the homes of my sister or brother, I could seldom resist a long draught of intoxicating enthusiasm from the stream of ideas rampaging wildly through my head. When I was back in my room again, I surveyed the purchases which I had made through the years and happily applauded my preference for mature objects (aside from the stuffed animals) and considered myself to be well on my way toward furnishing a place of my own. Cogwheels carrying new and magnificent ideas continually worked within my consciousness and refused to slow their relentless pace. When my zest was aired to my parents, their reactions sometimes grated with the ceaseless amblings of my dreams. Trying to illustrate the fine proportions of an idea to them was like attempting to open a rusty lock; I would surrender in frustration and prepare an alternative route. Dec. 27, 1976... Went to (the mall ) with Mom. Looked at china. Saw one (pattern) I liked and wanted to start a hope chest. Told Dad and of course he didn't approve. By the time I am allowed to get a set, that design will be obsolete. At fifteen, my likes and dislikes were well established, and I did not fear that I would one day regret the rustic pattern which caught my eye. Never before had I seen china dishes that meshed with my idea of perfection, and I revolted internally when my proposition was dashed. My dad stood firm, however, saying that it was pointless to store dishes, especially at my age; and he added, that I may change my mind about the pattern and what a shame that would be after investing in an entire set of china. I knew the situation was hopeless.