Dear Diary, F*** you!!

Chapter 1

(Warning: Language in the following chapter.)  

                                                                            Alicia Brown

I sat up in my bed with my legs crossed staring down at the pink diary sitting in my lap. I smiled at it. This was the diary that had gotten me through high school. This is the diary that brought me where I am now. But most of all, this is the diary that led me to him. I laughed slightly, thinking of how much I hated this thing at first. But eventually, it became my life boat. It became the one thing that was keeping me from sinking. Smiling still, I opened it up, and began to read the first page as I remembered everything I'd been through since I got this diary. I looked at the date which read "September 6, 2017" and began to read my old thoughts.

September 6, 2017

I grumpily walked through the office door. I was tired, frustrated, anxious, and to top it all off I had therapy. I sat down in the chair across from my therapist, Dr. Fledgers. She looked awfully cheery seeing me walk in. I hated this session already. When I tell you a HATED this woman I mean I HATED her. Then again I hated all psychologists. I hated therapy in general, even the very idea of it. People telling you what to do having not even gone through half of the shit they're reading in your file. It's annoying. I slouched in my chair making no attempt to hide the aggravation I felt at having to be there. That didn't make her any less peppy though. When she realized I had no intention of saying hi she started to talk, "Good evening Miss Brown. How has your week been?" I didn't know what she was expecting me to say. It was the same answer every week. "Fine." And yet every week she answers to that with, "Elaborate." Usually I would tell her there was nothing else to say and insist that she drop it but I was feeling extra annoyed with her today so instead I sighed and answered, "So depressed that I don't sleep, so anxious that I'm scared to leave the house and holding the same stress as an overworked thirty something year old woman who's a single mother with five kids." She smiled sadly and for a moment I felt bad for saying those things but quickly pushed that feeling away. Besides, she's the one who asked for the details. Am I really the bad guy for giving them to her? Yeah, I didn't think so. 

After a moment her sadness fades and she perks up. "Well, I think I have something that'll help with that." Unless she was about to pull out some sort of magical artifact that would make all my trauma and mental health issues go away I seriously doubted it. But I stayed quiet. She excitedly reached into her desk and pulled out a pale bright pink diary. You have got to be fucking kidding me. A million thoughts and questions swarmed my head at once. Did she think I was nine? Was this some sort of trick? Maybe a test? When I realized she was expecting me to say something all I could manage was, "Are you kidding?" She shook her head and it took everything in me not to lean over the desk and punch her in the jaw. However she kept talking and I forced my hands to stay in my lap. "I want you to write in this every day. Then when you come in if you want to share anything you wrote you can. No pressure." Oh my god she really did think I was a child. I snatched the book away from her completely fed up at this point and in a clearly frustrated tone said, "There, I took the stupid book. Are we done here?" She frowned. Did she honestly expect me to jump up and down at a stupid pink journal? Apparently she did because after a long pause she said. "You don't seem to be happy about this." That's where I lost it. "Of course I'm not fucking happy about this! This is the most dumb shit I've ever seen!" I waved the diary around as I spoke. What the hell was wrong with this woman? She responded calmly though she was clearly shocked. "I just thought that this way you had a way to document all your feelings that you aren't comfortable expressing to me." Did she honestly think that was the problem? Oh my god! "You don't seem to understand," I said laughing, "It's not that I'm not comfortable telling you what I'm feeling. It's that there's nothing to tell. God, when will the world understand this?!" I threw the diary on the floor and began to pace. I was furious to the point where I couldn't even speak. So instead I just paced and ran my hands through my hair till it hurt. I did that a lot when I was stressed. Sometimes it even hurt the next day, but I didn't care. My Dr. F desperately tried to clam me down but hearing her stupid peppy voice only made me more angry. I grabbed my bag and that stupid journal and stormed out of the room.