Josh, you're out of the band

A Normal Day

"Nobody thinks what you think, no one. Empathy might be on the brink of extinction. They will play a game and say they know what you're going through. And I tried to come up with an artistic way to say they don't know you, and neither do I. So here's a prime example of a stand up guy. Who hates what he believes and loves it at the same time."

Theses are the lyrics I've written in my journal today.

Hopefully, what I've written will not be worthless. And what I'm painting will not be wordless.

My therapist is trying to get me to write and paint and to just create. She believes that I have potential to do something. Maybe I do, but I don't think that Mrs. Pearson is anything special and she seems to think she is. She also thinks that everyone else is special, but that seems useless.

These just seem like pointless curses and nonsense verses.

Maybe one day I'll see meaning start to surface.

No one else is dealing with your demons.

I don't see how a therapist could help.

But my mom and dad seem to. They're the ones paying for these sessions anyway, and I just want to make them happy.

I hate them though. She makes me talk about everything. I get asked questions about my friends (which I have none), my talents, and my future. She also asked about life at home and how things are going since after the incident.

That's one thing that she doesn't ever ask about though.

Mrs. Pearson just simply calls it "The Incident."

"The Incident" happened about four years ago. I wish I could tell you what happened, but here's the thing, I don't remember. I used to ask all the time what happened, but no one would ever answer. They would just say that it was better that I remember on my own.

It lasted for about seven months. Well, at least that's how much of that year I don't remember.

I keep trying to come up with some possible way to tell you what might have happened, but I honestly have no clue. All I know is that I woke up in Ohio Hospital For Psychiatry, and I had no idea how I got there. I have to see a therapist now to make sure that everything is "Okay in the brain," as my dad would say.

I had to go back to living with my parents in Columbus after, but that has been fine. They take care of me and do everything that I ask, but they also give me time to myself if I ever need it which is nice. They understand that I'm getting older and can almost take on the world by myself now. My parents just want to be parents and help out a little bit.

So far everything has been fine.

I just write things in my journals and give them to Mrs. Pearson to show that I am making "creative progress." I see her five times a week to have a "little chat" and discuss the things that I've written about throughout the week.

Today is Sunday thankfully, so I won't be seeing her today. Her office always smells like old lady perfume and when I leave it sticks to my clothes, which is all the more reason to hate going.

But unfortunately, it's Sunday, and Sunday's are my suicide days.

I'm tempted to just keep faking my "Okay in the brain" just so that I can stop getting questioned, move back out of the house, and move on with my life without anyone interrupting or getting too close.