DAYS SPENT: 17

　　DAYS LEFT: 14

　　01/01/2020

　　Calm as I am, I’m a girl with many demons, pent up anger and a thirst for revenge that even the devil would be proud of,

　　But, I’m still stuck in here. It’s the first month of the new year and I’m stuck here like some sort of prisoner. Happy New Years’ Day to me; it’s not even a happy one because I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be in a psychiatric centre full of crazies.

　　I’m not mentally unstable.

　　I’m not crazy.

　　I’m perfectly in control of what goes on in my mind. No test or doctors report is going to tell me otherwise.

　　Dr Lewis suggested I write my feelings down in a diary; he said it was a perfect opportunity for me to express how I really feel instead of not talking at all during our sessions. I’ve been nothing but a pain in the ass for the past seventeen days, but it’s not my fault. I actually do have a pain in my ass-Summerdale.

　　‘’Don’t hesitate to tell it like it is in here,’’ he said with a smile on his greying face.

　　I stared at you diary and you stared back at me, your aqua coloured covers and crystal clear pages begged me not to leave you on his mahogany desk.

　　I yielded to your call and now I’m back in my empty room writing to you, or inside you. Whichever is more suitable for this purpose.

　　It’s funny though, but I thought that diaries were for three year old girls who dream about lollipops, castles and magical princes. You know, the type of thing that Disney plants in little girls’ head to mess with them when they are older. I never would have imagined that actual teenagers document their life story in a book.

　　Since I’m supposed to ‘’tell it like it is’’ to you, I guess I should tell you why I’m actually confined to the four walls of Summerdale Psychiatric Centre.

　　I’m suicidal.

　　At least that’s what my parents think.

　　They think I drowned myself on purpose, thereby wanting to cause my untimely exit from this fruitless and materialistic world. I’ve stated time and time again that they misunderstood what they saw but they don’t believe me. If they did, I’d still be a student, a proper one, not some trainee in meditation and yoga.

　　As it is with Justine and Mario Matthews, it’s my word against theirs. Why? Because I’m not their Mia Thermopolis; I’m not the perfect princess they’ve been grooming right from birth. I’m not the heiress to the Matthews empire they so graciously spent twenty-four thousand dollars per year in tuition for at Rossdale Academic Prep.

　　I’m a disgrace.

　　A shame to the family.

　　A crazy person in a house full of ‘un-crazies’.

　　The Matthews don’t like crazy; they despise it with every single fibre of their cold-hearted blood. Crazy creates problems. Crazy shatters the picture perfect image that they’ve weaved for over four decades. Crazy means unnecessary media attention. Crazy means chaos. Crazy means instability.

　　So what do they do to crazy?

　　They uproot her from her perfectly normal teenage life and confine her to a mental institution where she can learn to be un-crazy like the rest of the pack. Then she can be that perfect Mia Thermopolis, marry a perfect prince and push out a handful of perfect babies.

　　Live the American dream full circle.

　　…………………

　　The walls of Dr Lewis’ office and I have become the best of friends. Seriously, I could stare at them all day and not get tired of looking. There’s nothing special about them-they’re cream, bland and ugly just like Summerdale, but they’re tolerable. Unlike people, they don’t talk, or yell, or scream, or act like they can tell me what’s going on in my fucking mind.

　　They’re mute.

　　I just wish Dr Lewis could imitate them.

　　‘’Have you thought about that incident?’’

　　‘’No,’’ I say with a narrow of my eyes.

　　‘’Are you ready to talk about it?’’

　　Give it a rest already. ‘’No.’’

　　‘’Is there something holding you back from talking about it?’’

　　I give him a bored look. ‘’What could possibly hold me back from speaking about the day I almost killed myself?’’

　　My blunt tone takes him off guard but he composes himself. I wonder why he’s so surprised. It’s not like it’s a big secret. He has my file and it’s no doubt filled with statements from my parents, teachers, family doctors, psychotherapists and shrinks. ‘’You admit it was a suicide attempt?’’

　　‘’My parents and pretty much everyone else believes so, that’s why I’m here after all. Maybe if I internalize that mantra, I’d start to believe it too.’’

　　‘’Okay, then,’’ he nods. ‘’What do you believe happened that day?’’

　　‘’An accident. It was an accident.’’

　　He gives me his signature look. The ‘oh-I-think-you-are-lying-but-go-off-look.’ It’s aggravating. It makes me want to scream ‘bloody murder’ and then run away to the hills, never to be seen again.

　　But I can’t escape, not even in my dreams, for they are filled with that which I loathe and have loathed since the idea was not-so-subtly suggested at dinner with my parents at their favourite restaurant-Chipolte.

　　‘’Going by your version, why don’t you explain the ‘accident’ that happened that day.’’

　　I roll my eyes, already tired of this inquisition from the nineteen-twenties. If I haven’t said anything for the past seventeen days, what makes him think I’d start singing like a songbird now? ‘’I thought my parents already explained? I was being an irrational teenager so I accidentally drowned myself in the bathtub.’’

　　‘’Is that sort of behaviour familiar to you?’’

　　What he wants to ask is: ‘Is being crazy a pattern for you?’ but he wouldn’t because that would be highly unprofessional and downright rude. Instead, he opts for the cookie-cutter, watered down, perfect version of the question I’ve been asked by a bunch of family members, family doctors and psychiatrists.

　　‘’If I tell you what you need to know, would you request I be released?’’

　　He looks at me with pity. Apart from Summerdale, I hate pity. ‘’You know I can’t do that. We are nowhere near helping you recover from your accident and being the best version of yourself.’’

　　‘’I am the best version of me. No one can help me be the best version of me except for me.’’

　　‘’I was expecting that response.’’

　　He closes his binder and smiles, his greying hair fading into view. ‘’Someday, when it all becomes too much and you need a friend, I’m here for you.’’

　　You are not my friend. If you were my friend, you’d stop them from filling my veins with whatever poison they inject me with; if you were my friend, you’d stop them from forcefully giving me pills twice a day; if you were my friend, you would have gotten me out of this hell-hole.

　　‘’I’d keep that in mind, Dr Lewis.’’ I look at the clock on his desk and frown. ‘’May I be released now? I am a busy bee.’’

　　Really, I am a busy bee. I have dance therapy, art therapy, music therapy, group therapy, recreational therapy and crazy people therapy.

　　I am crazy after all.

　　‘’You may be excused.’’

　　I stretch my cramped limbs and run towards the door like my life depends on it. I faintly hear Dr Lewis say. ‘’See you on Friday.’’

　　Like that’s going to happen.