October 23, 2010
Saturday

I never imagined I'd see this journal again; I was convinced it was placed into evidence or maybe my parents took it.

I hardly thought about writing, but when I did, it weighed on me and made me cry. I'd been so used to bottling up my emotions, watching the days pass and barely speaking.

Even in therapy, I didn't open it the way I knew she wanted me to. Why should I? These people don't care about us. Each head they count outside of our doors like we're inmates, I believe they see as dollar signs.

There are people here grieving and dealing with far worse than me. One girl smoked with her boyfriend for the first time and because it was laced, she developed anger issues. She'd see things following her and would scream and hit her head against the wall to 'drown out the voices.' She punched Lou so hard, she went tumbling down the staircase.

Lou had her sent to the basement, then made Isaac drive her to the hospital. She was gone for a while and for once, the place wasn't so tense. Everyone spoke as loudly as they wanted, laughed, and played cards for hours.

I just sat by the window.

During therapy, Doctor Lewis asked me, "Why do you have trouble sleeping?"

And I'd say, "It's because I have insomnia," which is a lie, but that's what my doctor diagnosed me with. It's easier for them to digest than, 'When I close my eyes, I hear people crying over me, but when I open my eyes, no one's there. I feel my body go cold and stiff, and when I go to sleep, I see my old life playing like I was told it would when I die. I lie awake so I don't hear the crying, and so I don't see my friend for a few hours just to leave her again.'

"Maybe you'll do good with a new medication for sleep," she said, raising an eyebrow as if she needed my permission.

"I guess." I shrugged, then looked at her degrees framed and hung on the walls behind her.

It didn't make a difference to me anyway. I hadn't been on medication for my mental health since the night before I went to the hospital.

Around seven in the morning and seven at night, they'd call everyone downstairs to line up for meds. I hated having to go because they never had mine—they'd always say they were waiting for my primary doctor to fax over the prescription—and if I tried to stay in the room, Lou would make me stay in there for the rest of the day even when it meant I'd miss meals.

I don't know how much longer I have to be here, but I'm counting down the days to freedom.