I said to myself, “Anne, is that really you talking about hate? Oh, Anne, how could you?”
I continued to sit with the open book in my hand and wonder why I was filled with so much anger and hate that I had to confide it all to you.
I tried to understand the Anne of last year and make apologies for her,
because as long as I leave you with these accusations and don't attempt to explain what prompted them, my conscience won't be clear.
I was suffering then (and still do) from moods that kept my head under water (figuratively speaking)
and allowed me to see things only from my own perspective,
without calmly considering what the others -- those whom I, with my mercurial temperament, had hurt or offended --
had said, and then acting as they would have done.
I hid inside myself, thought of no one but myself and calmly wrote down all my joy, sarcasm and sorrow in my diary.
Because this diary has become a kind of memory book, it means a great deal to me,
but I could easily write “over and done with” on many of its pages.
I was furious at Mother (and still am a lot of the time).
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