This section is a collection of my journals. They are important because I can use them to vent certain emotions,
and to keep in check all the millions of different feelings I seem to experience all at once. These specific ones deal
with the harder aspects of my growing up. Because these journals are very open, some of the content might not be
suitable for young readers. Parents might want to flip through them themselves before allowing a young person to
read them.
JOURNAL Dec. 1980
Nothing exciting happened today. I broke my wrist, and while I was at the hospital I found out I have something
called Turner Syndrome. I guess my mom thought I knew, or was waiting for a good time. I just turned ten, and
I’ve had it since birth. A good time?
I know I’m different, but I was hoping to be different in the same way that everybody is different. Fat chance.
I’m one in every three thousand females different. My mom said something about seeing a special Dr. in Ottawa.
Someone who sees a lot of girls like me. Maybe he can give me addresses, because I’m the first one I’ve ever
known. I wonder if I’ll ever meet and become friends with someone who has T.S.? I don’t feel like writing
anymore, so bye.
JOURNAL May 1990
I just had a talk with my mom, and it was something out of a sitcom. Mom was in her bedroom, and I was really
upset, so I went to say hi and stuff. I didn’t stay long and went back to my room. She obviously knew something
was wrong, and asked me about it. I sat on my bed, and started to cry. I mean really cry. I told her about how
Dan and I are thinking about having sex. I still can’t believe I told her. I told her how scared, angry, and confused
I am. I look all right dressed, but what if I’m hideous nude, and that leads into how much I tell him about having
T.S. Do I explain I can’t have children? Do I show him my scars? Do I point out all my abnormalities in-case he
notices and asks questions? The anger comes from the fact that I don’t need this shit. I don’t want to deal with
these things. I resent having to. If I share my thoughts, who’s going to understand? Anyway, my mom handled it
perfectly, and I feel better now. I’ll become kinky, and make him wear a blindfold. Ha, ha.
JOURNAL
I had a counseling session with my Psyche. teacher today. I’m comfortable talking to her, but it doesn’t make it
easier. It’s all right to have a problem, but I don’t want her thinking I need to be committed or anything. That’s
why I don’t usually share things with people. I don’t know how much to divulge.
Dan is being a real jerk! I got dates mixed up on something we were supposed to do, and apparently the creep
wanted to go hunting on the same day. I hate hunting! How can I be with a man who hunts? He accused me of
spoiling all his fun. To teach me a lesson, he refused to go with me, and spent his weekend with the guys. I really
don’t think this will last. I’ve worked too hard to see myself as an adult, he’s not going to treat me like a child!
Yet, I’m still afraid to let go. There’s still a part of me that cares for the SOB. Do I have the energy to start over?
I feel like I confessed so much. Too many things were shared to quit now. What to do...
I need to stop living, half denying that I have T.S. Shit, I still have trouble spelling the whole thing out!
Let’s try it:
Turner Syndrome
There, I feel reborn. Goodnight.
AMAZING JOURNAL Dec 19th 1991
I am so excited. I met someone at work tonight. We talked for an hour! His name is Rob, and he's so sweet. I think he likes me to. We have a date set for tomorrow night after I finish work. He's sort of sexy too. He's a little shy, but I can work on him. Ha, ha.
This is some early Christmas gift. Good Night.
SAD JOURNAL April 30th 1992
My Grandmother died yesterday. Mrs. Madeline Merpaw. I was at the College, and Rita’s husband Alan picked
me up and drove me to the hospital. When I arrived, all I could do was tell her I was there, and try to hold her
hand. It was tough because her breathing was so irregular and raspy. Part of me wanted to run away. I just kept
saying who I was and that I was there, and it was all right. What was all right? The fact that she was dying?
Close family think she waited for me, because ten minutes after I got there, she died. Part of me thinks that if I
didn’t go into her room, she’d be alive today. I know that’s not how it works. I’m glad she let me say goodbye.
Rob said he’ll go to the wake and funeral. He’ll be great through this. I know he will. Anyway, the house is
starting to fill up again, I better go. Thanks for listening.
JOURNAL
Rob and I stared into each other’s eyes today and professed our love for each other. Corny huh? Anyway, it
looks like we’re going to move in together. We talked about it a lot. This isn’t just for fun. We know it means
forever. One day we will be married. Married. The word seems so strange. Someone wants to be with me! With
all my little quirks, and anxieties! Someone wants to be with me. I know how terrible it sounds, but I never
thought I would get married. I didn’t know how I would find someone to care about me. I wasn’t expecting any-
one to get past the fact I have T.S. I know my parents love me, but I think parents have to love their kids, no
matter what. Rob sees me as a person with the same kind of struggles as everybody else. He loves my laugh, he
says I can be genuinely sexy. There is nothing fake about it. He’s attracted to me, all of me. The scars don’t
matter, the puffy feet don’t matter, and the fact that I can’t have children is something he’s ready to deal with.
He told me he’s not with me specifically to have kids anyway. He means a lot to me. He’s willing to deal with
whatever we need to. The commitment is ready to be made, actually it already has.
DEAR JOURNAL May 18th 1992
I gave my mom quite the scare today. I woke up extremely early and caught the first bus to Rob’s. We had
apartments to look at! Anyway, I forgot to leave a note, so when she got up to go to work, I wasn’t home.
She assumed that I had gone jogging, per usual. When I wasn’t home by the time she was ready to leave, she
freaked. I can’t believe I had my mother thinking I was attacked and probably left for dead. My mom called
Rob’s, but we were celebrating our decision to live together, in the bedroom, so we didn’t hear the phone. Just
when we were about to leave, my dad knocked at the door. I knew instantly he knew what happened. My father
knows everything. He was just happy to see that I was O.K., but told me what my mom went through. I phoned
right away. She was still crying. I felt just awful. Rob and I were finally able to apartment hunt. We fell in love
with the first place we saw. A spacious two bedroom on ground level. It’s beautiful. The great news is we can
move in July 1st! I got the call about an hour ago. I need to suck up now. I’m going to apologize again, and
watch TV with my mom. Good night.
JOURNAL
I feel like I’m always solving everybody’s problem. Today it was Carrie. She’s not happy she says, she wants a
man she says, she hates her parents she says. Well, who the hell has a monopoly on happiness? Maybe I carry
around this cheery attitude or something. Maybe, because I don’t bother people with my garbage, they assume I
must be happy? My life stinks just as much as everyone elses. I’m not a great problem solver, so why do I play
shrink for everyone? I’m sure most people feel people dump their problems on them. I told Carrie we could go out
tonight, and get her mind off things. She had no problem going out, but I was warned not to invite Cindy. It’s
funny, nobody likes Cindy. I agreed, and as soon as we hung up I called Cindy to tell her to meet us there. I’m
such a bitch! If anything exciting happens, I’ll let you know.
JOURNAL
My mom and I had an interesting talk about our personalities today. She heard that a person’s character is
developed between the ages of 6 and 12, and she wanted my thoughts. I told her Freud (I love Freud) believed
this happened by the time the child was 5. She wanted some examples from my childhood to support the theory.
I think the most prominent is my fear of confrontation. I’ve always been a coward when there’s yelling,
screaming, or insults involved. Any kind of violence makes me ill. I can remember when I was really young, if
my dad yelled at my sister, I would cry. It wasn’t directed at me, but it would still bring tears to my eyes. It’s like
a strange fear of being condemned or criticized. I feel it may be the little girl in me who wants to make everybody
proud, and who doesn’t want to do anything wrong. It could also be the part of me that’s a spoiled brat who craves
attention. The kind of person that cries when they don’t get their way. Maybe I feel the world owes me,
what’s it to you anyway?
JOURNAL
A very sad entry. Today my mom and I were talking, and my birth came up for some reason. She said that for a
long time, she wondered what she did to deserve me, because of all the sickness I went through during the first
year. The news almost made me sick to my stomach. I’m glad she was able to talk to me about it, and I know she
obviously no longer feels that way. I know she hasn’t felt that way in an extremely long time. Somehow just
knowing about it makes me feel hurt, angry, and guilty. I’m hurt because there was a time when she found it tough
to care. Angry, because I was a baby for crying out loud! It wasn’t my fault. I know the real reason for her feeling
that way is because deep down my mom and dad feel responsible for me having T.S., so there’s a tinge of guilt.
Turner’s Syndrome is something that can’t be predicted. There’s no way of knowing that it’s going to occur. To
date, it still can’t be prevented. It’s something that can happen to any couple, no matter who the two people are.
No blame can go to anyone. Maybe I never told them that. What if my parents don’t know that I don’t blame
them? How do you say something like that face to face without falling apart? As much as I might need to, I don’t
have the courage or strength to say it. I hope writing it will do.
Mom, dad I need you to know that I will never blame you or feel you’re responsible. No other parents could have
cared for me, and treated me with so much love when I needed you both. That is why God gave me to you to be
nurtured and raised. No two people on Earth could have done a better job. I owe you everything. Love Babe.
I know they might never read it, or I might never be able to say it, but writing assures me that I feel it.
JOURNAL Aug. 1994
I’ve been thinking about having children again. As much as I know it’s impossible, I want to believe there’s a
chance. Part of me thinks I would make a wonderful mother. Part of me thinks there has to be some reason why I
can’t. Other than physical I mean. Maybe I shouldn’t be a parent, and this was the best way to ensure that I
didn’t. You know, maybe someone knows something I don’t. I hate seeing diaper commercials, or talk shows
about the wonders of parenting. It was fine when I was single, but now that I’m married, and getting older, I feel
the need to start a family. Adoption is a great option, but I want to child to be mine, and even if I got the baby an
hour after birth, I know it wouldn’t be completely mine. I hear so much about the experiences of carrying a baby,
and delivering, and a lot of it is good stuff. It’s almost impossible to talk to friends who have children, because
naturally they want to share all the cute stories about their kids. Sometimes they’re really enjoyable to listen to,
and sometimes they can be heart wrenching. Anyway, it is late, and I’m tired. Bye.
JOURNAL March 17th 1995
I just had a horrible dream. I dreamt I had a baby girl, but that’s not the bad part. The baby kept saying “are
you short mommy? Are you a woman mommy?” After listening and staring blankly at the child, I nuked her. I
microwaved her! I woke up when the microwave beeped. The beep turned out to be a car horn, which was what
woke me up. I know exactly why this happened. I was in the bank yesterday, and while I was in line this kid was
staring at me. The child began asking me if I was short. Not in a whisper, it was loud enough for heads to turn.
The question wasn’t asked once, but a few times over. I wanted to tell her “No, it’s an illusion. I’m actually
5’10’, and blond.” Instead I froze, and said nothing. I turned my head and silently begged her to stop. I know,
Wimp! By the time the mother intervened, I was humiliated. Stuff like this ruins you for the whole day. You’re
the only one that knows. It would just feel too weird telling anyone who would be able to respond.
DEAR JOURNAL
I was keeping for my sister last night. Megan is beautiful. She’s only three months old, and still delicate. When
she woke up from her nap, I decided to hold her for a little while. This feeling of jealousy and despair came over
me, and I started to cry. I just kept thinking of not being able to have one of my own. It overwhelmed me. It
scared me actually. It had never came over me that strongly before. I let myself cry. I still had a couple of hours
before they came home, so I just let myself cry. I was better afterward, and much more together. I know I need to
deal with it day by day. Like everything else, some days will be easier than other’s.
JOURNAL
I went on the web last night and checked out the T.S. sites. They were very informative. I’m surprised there isn’t
a lot of Canadian content though. Anyway, I put my name on a list where women who have the Syndrome can
send E-mail to each other. I took someone’s address right away, and added my name to the list. I hope the
response is good. It would be really nice to connect with other women who are experiencing the some sort of
things that I am. It will be a great support system. See ya.
POEMS
BIOGRAPHY
