I am fascinated by how words can tell so much without revealing too much. Like how a letter can tell a lifetime worth of pain. Like how a diary can tell a story so much more than a day's worth. you'll know what I mean after reading below.

Monday, February 14, 2011
7:02 AM

            Dear diary,

            Another day started and ended like a typical day for me. I went to school today, went straight home, and locked myself inside my room. The house is full of joy today, everyone seemed to have fun from a family trip. They went shopping and everyone bought something. I can even hear them saying they'll bought this and that soon. But here I am cocooned in my own world. Safe. From them.
            I thought I got used to this kind of life, always being ignored. You know very well that I am a middle child. A typical middle child syndrome sufferer. As a toddler, I was under the care of my grandmother. I had to be given to her because my parents cannot take care of me because they had another child to take care of. Perhaps that is the reason why I never really had a memory of my mother cuddling me and saying sweet things to me. Unlike my older siblings, they had a chance to have a mother. I even remember those days when I lived with my grandma in a house separate from my family. It was a small shabby house. I used to sleep beside grandma. No wonder she is the only one here who shows that much concern to me and takes care of me to the point where I get mad for invasion of my privacy. But I am thankful. I didn't have a mother but a substitute one.
            But then again, looking back to all these wasted years, two decades of existence without really knowing my parents in a trusting and intimate relationship, there is much regret. I live with them now but I still find it difficult to look at them in the eye. They hurt me too much. They hurt me so more than too much. They me never admit this but I know that I am never their favorite.
            Mom, Dad, remember when I was in elementary, how you would scold me for not being the first honor in class? Every grading I fear you, because my worth was measured by my grades. Remember how you would compare me to my classmates, how good they are? No wonder I never learned to play with other kids because I was the one who stays in her room studying books too advanced for her age to compensate.  My other siblings enjoyed childhood without the pressure you put on me. You never measured their worth based on their grades. You singled me out. When my brother became an honor student for the first time, I remember how you spoiled him. You gave him three-thousand pesos worth of leather shoes. He was on the bottom list of the honor roll while I was on top yet I was ignored. I tried hard. I tried so hard. My academic and extra-curricular achievements went beyond the usual. Still, I was ignored. Grade six. My graduation. I remember crying during our practice because you told me we are not celebrating my graduation because I was merely second honor. Never mind that I had other awards. Never mind that I was top one in all the entrance tests I took.
            I knew. You may love me but not as much as you love your other children. I have forgotten all these painful memories but the events these past few weeks woke the dead from their sleep. You told me not to go to my dream school because it is too expensive yet you are buying expensive things for my siblings. That would be fine if you bought me one too. But no. This laptop I use now, I have to shoulder more than half of its cost because you won't buy me one. My first cam cellphone, I bought it with the money I got from winning an essay writing contest. My closet is filled with clothes too old that you can use them as rags. But I pretend I love wearing them because they are "vintage" when in fact I just have no choice but wear them because I have nothing else. Why is it that when it comes too me, you cannot give me more that what I deserve? At the end of the day, I am always measured according to my achievements and not how much you love me. There is always a condition for you to love me.
            You hurt me too much. You hurt me so much more than too much.
            Days go by and we drift farther and farther apart. My dream of being treated like your baby seems impossible now. I am grown woman, free yet trapped in these memories. These years of never really learning to talk with you made me totally unable to. So I keep all these bottled up. If you open my heart you'll see how scarred it is. My façade is one that speaks of confidence and strength while my foundations are so messed up. Because you hurt me. You hurt me so much more than too much.
            After I put the last punctuation on this journal entry, I'll be hugging myself to sleep tonight, nursing all my wounds within.
            Middle Child