October 1st

That is the date my therapist tells me. I can tell the weather is changing, getting colder. The wind hurts my lungs and the cold makes my finger change colour.

What did I do in summer? Aren’t you supposed to go visit friends, spend time in the sun, eat food that drips and sticks to your hands then laugh about it. I stare at my pale hands, they’re the hands of a ghost. There is no indicater I ever left my room, in a sense that is true. My life now exists only in these few walls.

He says I should start this journal. Clear my thoughts and maybe get better. That line confuses me. I don’t feel like my life is wrong, that I need to be fixed.

I understand when people say I am mad, that I live in a mad house. When I hear that I picture yelling and screaming, people running past and flashy lights, sobs and nurses in nurse uniforms racing around with needles. That doesn’t sound like my life. It’s quiet, I don’t hear anyone else speak maybe they do but I never listen.

I know my schedule it never changes. I walk it every day. Not a step out of place.

9:00AM: wake up, and do what?

10:00AM: walk to breakfast what is it I always eat?

12:00PM: lunch. I am always given small white cup. They say it makes me feel better and they check if it’s empty.

3:00PM: they take us all outside. I sit by the door and no one talks to me. I forget why.

5:30PM: Dinner. I don’t remember what it tastes like.

8:00PM: they come and let me know it’s time for bed. By then I am already sitting on the end. Completely ready. I can’t remember when I got dressed but I must have. I always must have.

I watch all the lights in my small room shut off.

I lie awake in bed, hearing the air-conditioner shake and rattle. It’s a soothing sound. Like it’s trapped in this endless cycle with me.

October 8th, what was the year?

I am told to write once a week. They check my pages before every entry.

My therapist brings it up; asks if I want to talk about it. I don’t respond. I can’t remember if I’ve ever responded.

He then brings up the same question again, I don’t hear the words but I feel my body tense. I hate this question.

Every day they ask me, every day I never answer. Not out loud I don’t think. Do I? How do I know what’s in my head and what’s real?

“Why did you do it?” I didn’t.

“Do you remember her name?” Remember who’s? I feel her. She feels small, fragile but there’s no word attached to her.

“Did you hate her?” I don’t hate anyone.

“Why did you kill her?” I don’t remember.

“Why did you run your car into that wall?” I couldn’t have.

I must have responded a few time because when I look up I can see the lines on his face. He never likes my answer. He thinks it’s a bluff.

I don’t think he likes me. I think he hates me, he’s forced to be my therapist.

He told me once about his daughter. He calls her his second true love. I watch his fingers clench as he reads the accident.

He wants closer more than I do.

December 4th

I don’t remember that day. I don’t remember putting her in the backseat. I don’t remember the alcohol I drank. I don’t remember her sobs. I don’t remember my foot pushing down on the pedal. I don’t remember the impact.

Maybe I do but refuse to believe it.

I don’t remember her name.

No, that might have been the only lie I’ve ever truly told.

Her name was Lily. My favourite flower.

She was my Lily.

The truth is I don’t remember my own name.

What’s my name again?

When I ask myself that question the only answer I get is through her voice; calling to me through laughter. Calling to me through passion and joy. Calling to me through fear and pleads.

“Mom!”