I’ve never kept a diary before. The only reason I’m doing it now is because my annoying therapist is making me keep one. She says it’ll help me. I don’t know where she got that from. One of those dumb psychology books, maybe.
I’m writing this from my room at Paring Springs Mental Health Facility. That’s right, a house for crazies.
I was shipped here last week by my suddenly concerned parents. They’ve never cared about me before, so why should they now?
Just because I open my skin doesn’t give them reason to ship me off to a mental house. Well, maybe it does. I don’t know.
My psychologist wants me to write in this stupid wire-bound notebook whenever
Ugh. Someone’s coming down the hallway. It’s probably time for my daily crazy candies. Oh joy.
