August 30th, 7:27 PM

Four months, one week, three days. I cross off one more day on the calendar hanging next to my bed. August is nearly over. I find myself looking forward to September, to the cold weather and rainy days and maybe even snow.

My roommate is listening to rap music, turned up as loud as the nurses will allow it. He bobs his head in time with the music, tries to sing along, but his clumsy mouth stumbles over the lyrics, unable to keep up.

His name is Eric. He's been here longer than I have-- so long that he's stopped keeping track of time, stopped counting the days. He threw away his calendar a few weeks ago. He said it was too depressing to look at, a constant reminder of how much of his life he'd wasted. I'm not sure how old he is... twenty-nine, maybe thirty, with dark skin and dark hair and dark eyes. He's an alcoholic, and he's been in rehab three times already.

We don't talk much. I think the only time we ever really spoke was when I first came here, when the nurse put me in this room and told me to stop crying, stop feeling sorry for yourself, you're the one who ruined your life, stop crying already. I couldn't stop. I hadn't stopped for two days; what made her think she could stop me?

Eric just sat on his bed quietly, watching as the nurse tried to calm me down. "Relax," the nurse demanded, irritation creeping into her voice. "There's nothing to cry about."

I wanted to list for her everything that I had to cry about. I wanted to shove it all in her face, burn it into her brain, until she understood and cried with me. I tried to tell her, but I couldn't find the words. "Go away," I said to her, desperate to be left alone. "Go away, just leave."

She did, probably because she knew she wouldn't be able to help me. I sat on my bed, turning away from Eric, not wanting to feel his eyes on me. Exhausted, I leaned against the wall, tears still running down my face, my entire body shaking uncontrollably.

A few minutes later, I felt Eric's weight next to me on the bed. "Why are you crying, kid?" he asked, his hoarse voice oddly soothing,

I took a deep, shuddery breath, and tried to remember how to form words. "I... I can't... stop," I replied, sniffling pathetically.

"Why did you start?"

I shook my head. "I d-don't remember."

He began rubbing my back with one of his large hands. This action made me certain that he must have children, that he must have seen them crying a billion times and sat with them just like this. I wondered what their names were, how old they were. The thought that he was stuck here, unable to see them whenever he wanted, made me feel sorry for him.

"It'll get better," he assured me. "You'll be okay. The first couple of weeks are going to be hell, but after that, it gets better."

For some reason, his simple words comforted me. I was still sobbing, but there were no tears left. My head was throbbing. I had never felt so tired before in my life.

"You should sleep. Lay down."

I obeyed him. Something about him reminded me of my father. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine that it was my father and I was at home, safe in my bed.

Eric got to his feet and pulled the blankets over me. "You'll feel better tomorrow." It was a lie. Come tomorrow, I would have a killer headache, I'd be nauseous, and I'd barely be able to move. I knew what was coming. Still, I was in no mood to argue. I could sense that he was watching me, but I somehow managed to fall asleep anyway.

After that day, we never talked much. I like him... I just don't want to get to know him. I don't want to get attached to this place, this room, these people. Group therapy, arts and crafts, Starbucks on the weekends if we're good little boys and girls. This isn't what I want my life to be.

My therapist asked me the other day, "Mythe, what do you want to do with your life?" The scary thing is, I drew a blank. I have no idea what I want to do. Should I go to school? Get a job? What kind of job? Where will I live? All of it makes my head spin, makes me crave morphine, the dead sleep that comes along with it. All I know is what I don't want. I don't want to be in rehab. I don't want to be pushed around anymore. I don't want to be the way I was.

When I couldn't answer her question, she gave me a stupid journal to write in. "Write down your thoughts," she said. "Maybe that will help you realize what you want."

"Sure, doc. Whatever you say," I said.

After the session ended, I threw the journal away in one of the big, metal garbage cans outside. I decided not to tell her about that. To this day, she is under the impression that I write in my journal every night, and that I am well on my way to self-actualization. She's expecting me to have a "breakthrough" any day now, whatever the hell that means. Maybe she wants me to break down and cry all over her desk. I could probably do that. I'll give it a shot in our next session.

I look over at Eric, still bobbing his head along to the music. "Don't you ever listen to anything besides rap?" I ask him.

A slight smirk crosses his face. "You don't like rap?"

"I like it just fine."

"Then what's the problem?"

I shrug. "No problem, I guess."

"You like rock music better?" The way he says it is more like a statement than a question. Like he already knows the answer.

I shrug again.

"That's what you were raised on, innit?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Your dad."

For a moment, I am silent, unsure of how to respond. "What about my dad?"

"Wasn't he a big rock star? That's what some of the other patients said. That your dad was a rock star. They said he killed himself a few years ago."

"Mmn," is my eloquent response.

"Is it true?"

"What do you think?" I snap, losing my patience. I'm so sick of talking about my dad, of answering questions about him. Was he a nice guy? Is it true that he got you addicted to drugs? Did he beat you? Why did he kill himself? It makes me want to scream.

Eric holds up his hands. "Okay, okay. Sorry. Forget I said anything."

"No, let's talk about this. You brought it up, so let's fucking talk now. Yes, he was a rock star. Rich and famous and on the cover of all the magazines and whatever. And yeah, he's dead now, and no, I don't want to give the the fucking details of how he died." I pause, and Eric stares at me, totally silent. "Next time you talk to the other patients," I continue, "how about you tell them to mind their own damn business."

Eric nods slightly, and says nothing more for a long while. Finally he clears his throat. "Um... sorry, man... I wasn't trying to, like... piss you off."

"Whatever." I lay back on my bed, fixing my gaze firmly on the ceiling. "Forget it." And then, except for Eric's music, there is silence in our little room.

August 31st, 9:35 AM

My therapist gave me a new journal to write in. This one is different, though-- it's a "dream journal," and I guess I'm supposed to write my dreams in it every morning so that she can analyze them. The problem is, I can't remember the dream I had last night.

With a small sigh, I look up from the blank pages of my journal. Some of the other patients are sitting on the opposite side of the courtyard, hoping to tan their skin in the sun. I sit in the shade, watching one of the girls as she lights a cigarette. I never could stand the smell of cigarettes, but now they seem strangely appealing... the idea of a new addiction, one that doesn't mess with your head. Although I guess that whole lung cancer thing would kind of suck.

It's a pretty day outside, I suppose. The courtyard is well-kept, with the last of this season's flowers just beginning to die away, the leaves turning from green to gold. Still, the effect is ruined by the high, brick wall surrounding the courtyard-- the wall which blocks us from the outside world. It makes me feel almost claustrophobic, as if the walls will suddenly close in on me, crushing me.

I glance back down at the blank journal, still unable to remember last night's dream. Someone once told me that after you wake up from a dream, you have only five seconds to remember whatever you can. Anything you don't remember in those five seconds is lost.

Sometimes I wonder if my whole life has been a dream. There are things I can recall perfectly, things I can describe in detail, and then there are these huge, blank spots, like someone took an eraser to my memory. Before I was in rehab, I used to wake up every morning thinking, "where was I last night? What was I doing?" I would scramble to remember something, anything, any small detail, but all I could ever remember was holding a syringe. Finding a vein. And then, nothing.

I wonder what my therapist would say if I told her I'd dreamed about shooting up. There wouldn't be much for her to analyze about that, I suppose. She'd probably be disappointed.

This dream journal seems pointless to me. I'm supposed to have my last session in two weeks, anyway. My last session before I can finally get out of here. Maybe it's just some kind of filler. She knows she's not going to get me to talk about anything significant, and she's out of assignments to keep me busy. So, she's resorting to dream analyzation. She must be desperate.

There's no way I'm going to remember what I dreamed, so I decide to make up some shit. "I dreamed that I was driving a car," I scribble on the first page. "And everything was fine, until I realized that I don't know how to drive. I crashed into a bunch of people. And I felt happy about it." There. She should have a good time analyzing that one. Maybe she'll decide that I'm psychotic. That would be fun.

12:46 PM

My therapist, Dr. Lancaster, raises her eyebrows as she looks over my made-up dream from earlier. "Well," she says. I expect her to add something to this, but she only shakes her head and runs a hand through her blonde hair. "Well," she repeats.

I calmly lean back in my chair, arms crossed. "Yeah," I offer intelligently.

She sighs heavily as she closes the journal, setting it aside. "I'm not sure what to make of that."

What? No ranting on and on about the subtle symbolism of this phony dream? She must be having an off day.

"When you hit the people in your dream, what was that like?"

"Gory," I tell her without missing a beat. "There was blood everywhere, splattered all over the windshield, and their faces were pressed up against the windows... I could hear their bones snapping, and--"

She holds up a hand to silence me. "Alright, alright. That's enough."

"But I didn't even tell you about the woman who had her head crushed under one of the tires."

She rolls her eyes. "Did you recognize any of the people you hit?"

I shake my head. "They were all strangers."

"And you felt happy when you hit them?"

I nod.

"Why do you think that is?"

"I don't know, Dr. Lancaster," I say, my eyes wide and innocent.

"Have you ever felt the urge to kill a stranger?"

"No," I reply honestly.

"Have you ever felt the urge to kill someone you know?"

"No."

She doesn't seem to believe me, probably because I'm not a great liar.

"...Maybe. Once or twice," I amend.

"Once or twice," she repeats, writing something down. "What stopped you?"

I shrug. "I don't know."

She flips through my file, through the pages of her notebook, and is silent for a long time before looking up at me through her glasses. "Sometimes, I worry about you," she tells me.

"Gee, thanks."

"You won't talk to me about anything. Every time I ask you a question, you dance around it, or say nothing at all. Why is that?"

"I don't think my life is any of your business."

"You're not allowing me to help you."

"Maybe I don't need your help."

"I think you do."

"So, what exactly are you expecting to happen, here? You want me to tell you my life story so that you can help me with my issues, or whatever? You think if I tell you about every little thing that's ever happened to me, you'll be able to fix me?"

Dr. Lancaster is silent a few moments, looking at me thoughtfully. "No," she says finally. "I just think that you've been keeping a lot of things bottled up for a long time, and that only makes things worse. I think you'll feel better if you talk about it."

"And if I don't talk?"

"Then we'll have to reschedule your final session."

I glare at her. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that if you don't cooperate with me, there's no way I can know for sure whether you're ready to go back out into the real world. So I'll have to postpone your final session."

I am so completely outraged by this that I can't think of anything to say. Who is she to say whether I'm ready to leave this place? She knows nothing about me.

"I'm also going to have to ask you to stop making up dreams for your journal," she says, smirking slightly as she pushes the journal back toward me.

On instinct, I snatch the journal away and throw it, hard, into the nearby trashcan. In a rather violent motion, I rise from my chair, accidentally knocking it aside. "Fuck you."

She laughs. "If I only had a quarter for every time a patient said that to me." Calmly, she sets down her notebook and pen. "I think that's enough for today, Mythe. I'll see you tomorrow."

I turn and storm out of the room, slamming the door behind me and stomping down the narrow hallway. I am tempted to pack up my things and check myself out, but part of me knows that Dr. Lancaster is right. I'm not ready to be back in the real world again... not yet.

The fact that she is right only incenses me further. By the time I make it back to the room I share with Eric, I feel like breaking something. Luckily, Eric is gone, probably at group therapy. I throw myself on my bed, bury my face in the pillows, and begin screaming every profanity I know until I run out of breath.

1:54 PM

Several minutes later, I roll onto my back, my eyes focusing blankly on the ceiling. I hear footsteps in the hallway, most likely Eric's. Sure enough, the door opens to reveal his tall figure. "Hey," he says as he steps in and closes the door behind him.

"Hmmn," is my witty reply.

"I saw Dr. Lancaster downstairs," he tells me.

"Good for you."

"She said to give you this." He holds something out to me, and I turn my head to look; it's the dream journal. "She said to read the first page."

With a roll of my eyes, I take the book from him. "Whatever." I casually toss it aside. "How was group therapy?"

"We talked about 'emotional intelligence.'"

"What the hell is emotional intelligence?"

"I dunno. But I guess it's pretty important."

I laugh quietly, and the two of us fall silent. Eric sits on his bed with his back to me and puts on his headphones, immersing himself in his music. He always does this after group therapy-- he says it helps him relax.

My eyes travel downward, landing on the journal, which is on the floor next to my bed. Whatever it is that Dr. Lancaster wrote in there, I'm not interested. She can go to hell. I don't need her, and I'm certainly not about to play her little game.

Except... actually... I'm a little curious.

Maybe I could just read it. It wouldn't hurt, right?

Right.

I reach for the journal and open it to the first page. Underneath my fake dream are words in her handwriting, written in red ink.

"Tell me about your childhood," it reads.

I know I should be furious when I read these words. Haven't I told her that I'm not interested in her help? Haven't I made it very clear that I want nothing to do with her? But I've already spent all my anger; now I am only slightly annoyed.

I'm tired of arguing with her. I don't want to fight anymore... I suppose I'm giving up. Or maybe this is the "breakthrough" that Dr. Lancaster is always hoping for. Either way, I don't care. She wants to know about my childhood? Fine. I'll tell her about my goddamn childhood.

September 1st, 8:17 AM

I trudge down the hall to Dr. Lancaster's office, gripping the journal nervously in my hands. Each step is harder than the last, the temptation to turn and run back to my room growing stronger every second. I could just rip all the pages out and pretend I'd never written anything.

Yet somehow, just seconds later, I find myself in front of her office door, watching my hand as it seems to raise of its own accord, knocking twice.

"Come in," calls her familiar voice.

Reluctantly, I turn the doorknob and slowly push the door open.

She looks up from a stack of papers in front of her, her eyes widening slightly in surprise when she sees me. "Good morning, Mythe. You're very early for your appointment. It's not until--"

I cut her off by stepping into the room and carefully setting the journal down on her desk. My eyes meet hers for just a moment before I shove my hands awkwardly into my back pockets and look at the floor. "I'm not coming to the appointment," I mumble.

She places a hand on top of the journal, as if she's afraid I'll try to take it back. "Alright," she says simply.

With that, I turn and leave the room, closing the door behind me. Once I am back in the hallway, I lean against the wall, trying to calm my nerves. Last night, I didn't sleep at all. After Eric turned the lights out, I sat on my bed with a flashlight precariously balanced on my shoulder, filling the pages of the journal with my scratchy handwriting.

In some ways, it was a relief to write things down, to get them out of my head... but it made me feel sick at the same time. Why should I write my innermost thoughts, my secrets, for someone else to read? Why would I want anyone to know me so completely? Several times, I tried to will myself to put the pen down, but some part of me (the part Dr. Lancaster would probably call my "inner child") wouldn't allow me to stop.

I close my eyes and sigh quietly. There's nothing I can do, now... she's probably already reading my words, analyzing every sentence. She'll ask me a billion more questions, and then what? Will I answer them, or will I tell her to shut the hell up?

Finally, I make my way back to my room. Group therapy isn't until eleven, and I think I definitely need to sleep until then. I collapse on the bed and glance over at my calendar. Before I lose consciousness, I take hold of the pen hanging next to the calendar and cross off one more day.

Four months, one week, five days.