What It Takes

Entry #1 (Monday, July 1st)

Dr. Roberts gave me this journal to write in. He said to use it daily to get out my thoughts, my story. He said this will help with my recovery. Well, I don’t have much to say other than I am tired. I haven’t slept in two days. I feel as if I’m floating in the hallways as a ghost.
Is that what I’m supposed to write in this thing?
At least one good thing happened in therapy. I told Dr. Roberts that Jordan raped me, a complete lie, yes, and a damn good story. He believed me, and now I’m on the “road to recovery”. Dillion won’t go to jail now, and when I get out of here, if I ever get out of here, maybe someday I’ll come back to him. I just hope Jordan can forgive me for that awful lie. I only did it so Dillion would be safe and free. But it’s left this awful pit in my throat, and what’s worse is that they aren’t letting me go to the bathroom at all except with supervision. I hate this place.

Entry #2 (Tuesday, July 2nd)

My fingers are shaking. They tell me my body is adjusting to the new meal plans. Fuck that, I don’t want to be a fat cow!

Entry #3 (Wednesday, July 3rd)

The days have started piling up and I feel my hands break under the weight of them. I miss something, I don’t know what, but I miss it. My old life? No. Maybe I just miss having a life.

Entry #4 (Thursday, July 4th)

These journal entries are stupid. This place is stupid. I will never leave, because I am stupid.
Someone take a fucking firework and shoot it off in my head.

Entry #5 (Friday, July 5th)

I’m feeling something weird. I don’t know what it is, and it’s scaring me.

Entry #6 (Saturday, July 6th)

Yesterday someone killed themselves in the bathroom. I figured out what I’m feeling: failure.

Entry #7 (Sunday, July 7th)

A girl gets to go home today. I can’t understand why that’s a good thing. I have nothing to go back to. Maybe that is why they tell me my recovery is going slowly. It is perhaps because I have nothing to recover for.

Entry #8 (Monday, July 8th)

They asked me how it felt to be close to death. I answered: Liberating. They gave me blank stares. I smiled for the first time in months.

Entry #9 (Tuesday, July 9th)

I have gained probably ten pounds since they’ve been controlling my diet. I hate how I don’t know what I weigh. Seriously, I can’t stand it. Maybe I do have a problem after all. Damn it, I’m fat.

Entry #10 (Wednesday, July 10th)

This is the tenth entry. So far, I’ve written less than a few pages of thoughts. How pathetic. Maybe I should write more, for therapy as they say. But there’s nothing to report. Therapy is annoying, but thankfully I’m a natural liar. I don’t think they doubt the story I’m telling them. At least it takes my memory away from the real story, my past life. Or, current life, should I say. Or should I say? Is that my past life, or am I still living it? It seems like everything is on pause. That awkward moment when the animals lay low, the wind seizes for a minute, and you wait.

Entry #11 (Thursday, July 11th)

I am scared. Why? I’m not sure. But I think something may be wrong. Something inside me desperately wants out. And I don’t mean that I want to purge, no, no that’s not it at all. In fact, it’s not physical by any means. It’s as if I want to run away from myself.
Despite what they say, leaving this place does not mean at all that I am healed, or that I am recovered. It just means that I will go and be lost somewhere else. On my medical file it will say “recovered” and on my face it will say “lost”, a puppy with no recognition of home, because I wasn’t home long enough to remember it. I haven’t been normal long enough to miss it.
God damn it.

Entry #12 (Friday, July 12th)

Twelve fucking days of the same god damn thing every fucking day! I can’t take it anymore! My pen cannot move quick enough to get out my anger. Damn this place with their funky nurses, psychologists, and wacky patients-oh wait, I guess I should include myself in this little tangent then, shall I! Well, where the hell do I start? It’s like my mouth is on fucking vacation! Spoonful of this, mouthful of that, now lets fuck me up with all that delicious fat! I can see it starting to accumulate on my body, attach itself like a leach, reminding me of its presence every time I sit down or look in a mirror. The fat escalades over my jean buttons like a god fucking damned waterfall of fat!
And they say I’ve only gained a little. That’s it, I’ve had it. No more of this intrepid fat intake. I’m starving, and I don’t care what the hell they think of it!

Entry #13 (Saturday, July 13th)

They wouldn’t let me starve. I’m going to be fat like a turkey before Thanksgiving. Fuck my life. Someone eat me, please.

Entry #14 (Sunday, July 14th)

I hate this. I hate everything. This journal is so pointless. Why am I even here? Oh ya, because I tried to kill myself. I wanted to be dead! There is nothing worse than being that close to death, to a final, eternal sleep, and being pulled out of it and told that you need help. No fucking duh, I was helping myself! I was ending this torture! Please read this, and let me off. The roof!

Entry #15 (Monday, July 15th)

Did I really want to kill myself, or was I just looking for a second chance?
That is what a psychologist asked me today. Oh gosh darn, maybe she is right. Maybe, all along, I did want a second chance.
Seriously, who are these people with their insipid theories?