Get Well Soon

Day 1



 



I am sitting at a desk in the middle of a hallway, and all of the lights are off. No one will tell me what they’re going to do with me or how they’re going to help me or how long I have to be here. They just plunked me down in this freaky place, told my parents not to worry, and now I’m stuck.



            They told me to write. Write down your feelings. It’ll help you. Have some paper. Have a pencil, they said. I don’t like pencils, I told them. They smudge. I once kept a journal all in pencil, and when I went back to read all of the depressing stuff that I wrote, it was gone. Smudged away. I wrote it all down, the stories of my life, my feelings, all of the crap you’re supposed to say in journals so you can look back and see what a big loser you used to be. But it was all gone, mushed together as if none of it mattered in the first place. Which it didn’t. Because I still wound up here.



            Screw journals. I don’t need a journal to tell myself what I already know: Life sucks. I’m fat. Nothing interesting ever happens to me.