Journals are retarded. At least that's what I think, but my therapist says that I should try writing in one. Just let my thoughts and feelings flow out through my fingers. She seems to think that this will help me get over the things that have happened, since I won't talk to her about any of it. But it's not like I won't talk to her about it. It's more like, I don't understand why I need to talk about it. She already knows everything that has ever happened to me, it's all in my medical charts. My body being the roadmap for the abuse and pain that I suffered through all these years under my mother's care.

To be perfectly honest, I don't really think my therapist actually gives a damn about anything I might have to say. She's just another one of those annoying people who pretends to care so that they can get what they want from me. I'm used to those kinds of people. Those were the types of people my mother would sell me to for the night so often. Yes, my mother treated me the same as all the other whores she employed. That is, when I wasn't working myself to the bone to keep her whore house sparkling clean.

I am pretty sure that I was always aware that my mother hated me, hated my very existence. I was a mistake she made once, with a man she had believed loved her, a man who disappeared as soon as he learned about me. The hatred and anger she couldn't show to him, she showed to me, until my body was littered with the same scars that her heart was. So from the time I was big enough to begin until the day the police raided her little house of ill repute, I was her slave, her whipping boy, and a special treat for the pedophiles she catered to on occasion.

It's weird not being in that house anymore. I don't know what I am supposed to do now and whenever I attempt to do something familiar, my foster parents tell me that I don't need to do it. I wish I could find the voice to tell them that it relaxes me some, that it is something normal to me, but I just nod and go back to my room instead. No one understands and I don't know how to make them understand. I could tell them, I'm sure I could if I tried hard enough, but for the most part I have forgotten how to form the words with my mouth.

Maybe this journal thing might be helpful in the end, assuming of course I bother to ever let someone see it. Here maybe I can put my life down on paper. All of the pain, all of the torment, and all of the times my body was violated. It wouldn't make any more or less real, but perhaps then I wouldn't think about it anymore, maybe my nightmares would go away. I could hope at least, even if no one ever reads this, that my own conscience will at least be at peace.