Turn the Page 2: My Destiny

Chapter 13: PW Journal Entry #1

I don't remember the last time I've sat down and wrote on a journal. I guess the only reason to that is because I've avoided it ever since I lost Dez and Summer.

Journaling was my form of escape before the tragedy happened; amidst the hustle and bustle of my life as a wife and a mother, the only "me time" I made sure I had every single day was to sit down with a nice cup of coffee while I scribble away my thoughts and feelings for the day.

Not that anyone is ever going to read this, but just in case anyone from this rehab center "stumbles" upon this, I hate and love you all for making me do this.

It is, in fact, Vicky's idea. Ah, my genius dear friend, whom I trust with ever fibre of my being, wanted me to sit down and try pouring my thoughts into this empty journal. It's not mandatory or anything, but the fact that a psychiatric ward is now my temporary home tells me that I should really give it a try. The boredom I am experiencing living here is starting to make me nuttier than I already am—might as well take advantage of the fact that they gave me something to do.

Writing, specially with an actual pen and paper, is something that I've completely erased in my mind as a form of stress reliever. The pain of losing someone—or should I say I say: "someTWO"—can be so extreme, so intense, the things that used to bring you so much joy and comfort become so utterly useless. I mean what's the point, right? Nothing seems to matter anymore. You're in so much pain that even picking up a pen becomes a burdensome task. And besides, the emptiness that replaced the fullness in your heart is extremely overwhelming, what good can come out from this new nothingness you need to get yourself used to?

Losing my husband and daughter—the words "excruciating pain," "sorrow," "anguish" all become an understatement. It's almost like they mean nothing to me anymore.

NOTHING.

Nothing can ever describe the mind-altering, gut-wrenching, spine-tinggling, body-numbing, heart-stopping emptiness grief can cause a person.

Maybe that's why I ended up here. I was a ticking time bomb as I heard my friends tell me before. This was bound to happen.

Since I was little, I've mastered the art of sweeping my feelings underneath a nice little rug to make it seem like I have it all together. Everything is clean and in tip-top condition, I do not dare let one speck of dust be seen. However, it can get pretty messy and dirty underneath it all.

I've been through a lot. I know I have every right to be angry, sad, lonely, depressed, anxious even. I don't know, I felt as though the pressure is on and June needs to be strong. June needs to have it all together. June doesn't have time to lose it or else—or else all hell is going to break loose.

Vicky knows. She's good at reminding me that it's a common misconception that women need to be on the go all the time, that idle women will fall servant to the devil's hands, and that people often ignore the fact that rest plays an important role in one's overall well-being.

I kept myself busy ever since. I focused on being a wife and a mother, running around like I have an extra set of hands. I did get exhausted. I won't deny that. But I tried my hardest not to show it. Nobody forced me to hide underneath a facade, but somehow, my brain is wired that way. I had to be super wife. I had to be wonder mom.

Thus, June's ending place is this ward. Vicky loves to correct me when I say that. "June, it's a REHAB CENTER."

A rehab center—like for people who need to be rehabilitated after being an alcohol or drug addict? I mean, I get that. Substance abuse—you take away the substance long enough so the abuse is cut off, and boom! Hopefully, your body is cleansed enough of all the toxins that made you addicted to it so that you can be released out in the world drug-free and alcohol-free and you live happily ever after.