Thorns On My Rose: A Story of the Daughter of Robert Downey Jr. (EDITING)

Chapter 1 - "Certifiably Insane"

Alana-Rose's Perspective

All my life, the only people in my family photo album have been the folks on my mom's side. I never knew my dad or his people. Like those cartoonish silhouettes with question marks in their faces, it was hard to imagine who they were when no one liked to talk about them. The one tidbit I did get was that my biological father was alive and living somewhere in the western United States. California, I think, is what my mother said. But I probably could've been listening better. I don't know, man—after about seventeen years of absence, it was a little hard to be invested in Tales of My Shit Father.

   But I guess that's kinda a lie; I'm thinking about my stupid dad right now. And it's probably a waste to try and explain things anyway. I'm sure he hasn't been losing sleep over me the same way I have over him. 

   My name is Alana-Rose Tollen and, apparently, I'm slowly losing my mind. Or so I'm told.

   My mom died nearly a month ago. She's been buried for weeks, but I honestly don't remember how she got there—how she died, I mean. Hell, I can't remember the service, even though I'm told I was present. Jake, my stupid, sorry excuse of a therapist, reminds me of that, like, every day.

  Jake got some psychiatrist to give me the official stamp, a diagnosis to explain the sudden onset of my amnesia. The verdict? A highly hormonal, morbidly depressed teenage girl, though whatever the medical term is for that condition, I've no clue.

A couple of weeks ago, a few of my suitcases were packed for me and I was shipped to some random guy's house; it's where I've been staying since the funeral. I don't remember if the house is Jake's or a different dude's house. Could maybe be some chick's house, I do know that there's a lady that lives here. I just don't this it's her house. Inexplicably, she seems to always be wielding a hairbrush or comb, or some shit. Frequently, I'm cornered and asked if I want a scalp massage—and who the fuck says no to those?

  Wait. I think she's the maid.

She's the one who makes me take a shower at least twice a week. She's the one who snitched to Jake when she found out I'd been putting most of my meals down the toilets in the house and that's why those things kept flooding. Not because of the massive dumps I was claiming to take. The day after Jake found out about the toilets, an incident he only now referred to as "the last straw," I woke up with an IV needle in my arm and a tube down my nose that was now responsible for feeding me.

  I ingest huge amounts of medication everyday to keep me "manageable," and I'm usually not allowed anywhere outside the house. I spend a good deal of time either in the huge Olympic sized pool in the back yard or lying on my bed like I am right now. I actually think that somewhere in my not-listening to Jake I accidentally heard him say "...which means that you can't go anywhere without a professional psychiatrist or therapist." Meaning: "If we leave you alone, there's  a risk that you'll play a live game of Hang Man or purposely drown yourself in the pool."

  FYI, I hate Jake.

   I think I tried telling him once or twice but wasn't successful. It went something like this:

   One morning/afternoon, I was staring at my bedroom ceiling when the annoying whine that it is my therapist's voice began to interrupt my train of non-thoughts.

"Alana Rose—good morning, sweetheart. How's my favorite patient?"

   I continued to look at the ceiling. 

   "How was your rest? Did you sleep the entire night? Any nightmares, or maybe even good dreams you would like to share?" He asked, all the while jotting down on his stupid yellow legal pad.