DO NOT READ UNLESS YOU ARE ME (or Jules)

March 2

Okay.

So. Diary? Journal? Death-log? Realisticly, death log. So my mom doesnt cry? Journal.

Dr. Park says “writing can help process what you’re feeling.” What if I don’t want to process anything? What if I’d rather throw a pudding cup at the wall and scream into a pillow until the nurses threaten to sedate me again?

(That only happened once.)

But fine. I’ll try this. It’s not like I’ve got practice tomorrow. Or ever.

March 5

Mom brought me a comic book today. One of the old ones, all creased and loved-to-death, like me. She smiled the whole time she handed it to me, like her smile was going to glue my lungs back together.

I didn’t tell her it hurt to read. Like, not just my eyes, my chest. I can’t explain it. Holding a thing I used to love is like hugging a ghost now.

I asked her to bring it anyway. Even if I can’t read it, I can hold it.

March 9

Nurse Daniel has a terrible laugh. I told him it sounds like a dying orca, and he gasp-laughed even harder. It was a whole disaster. Someone down the hall thought a monitor flatlined.

I like him. He doesn’t talk to me like I’m breakable. He also smuggled me a real soda yesterday and whispered, “If you tell anyone, I’ll deny you ever existed.” So dramatic. I respect it.

My hands shake more now. Writing’s harder. I’m trying not to care.

March 14

Jules came. She brought chips I can’t eat. She told me school sucks without me, that she yelled at my old chem partner for “using Eli’s desk like it wasn’t sacred ground.”

I told her she’s an idiot. She called me a drama queen. It felt normal.

I wanted to say “I’m scared.”

I didn’t.

March 16

Dr. Park adjusted my meds again. I’m more tired now. Like, if I blink too long, I wake up and it’s two hours later.

Also, scratch that last page. Im not afraid.. of death atleast. Butttttt… I AM afraid of leaving everyone, or well. Sad about it. I mean, it feels like my parents and everyone think I WANNA leave them.

I dont.

The doctors keep saying “rest is important.” But every time I sleep, it feels more like I’m leaving than resting.

March 18

My fingers aren’t cooperating today. I dropped my fork three times. Daniel pretended to “accidentally” drop his clipboard too, just to make me feel better. It didn’t work.

I hate pity. But I think what I hate more is deserving it.

March 20? 21?

Dates are getting fuzzy. The clock in here ticks too loud and too slow at the same time.

I don’t think I’ll finish this journal. Not like, on purpose. Just… everything’s slower now. Words. Breaths.

It’s weird. I’m not crying. I thought I would be.

I’m not scared either.

I think I’m just kinda done

Tired in a way that even Jules’ dumb jokes and Daniel’s smuggled soda can’t fix.

If someone finds this and reads it, Sorry about my handwriting. I swear it used to be better