Dear Cxmo (I'm not writing Dear diary and camouflage is pretty much my life, so...),
I'm not sure how this works, but I guess I'm going to figure that out. I've never been a writer, but I guess I should improve on that, just like I should improve on everything. Angela told me to keep a blog because it will help me, but I don't want others to read what I'm doing; besides, I can't accidentally give away military secrets. So we compromised on a diary that only she and I read.
She told me to write like I'm talking to a person, so I guess I should clarify. Angela is my PTSD and trauma therapist, or, as I call her, my lifeline [Please. I'm not, as I've told you many times, your life line.-Angela]. I write this because she's the only reason I'm alive. I have nothing else to live for. My foster parents are both in prison, I'm a cripple (Angela says not to say that, but so what. It's true.[Jodi, this really does hurt to see you treat yourself like this. Don't, please don't.]), and even my therapy dog got hit by a car. So that's that.
It's not like I hate life. I used to love it, embrace every waking moment. And I know that's how I should feel now, but I don't. And it's not like I want to die, either. But what's the point of living if I'm alone [Jodi, you aren't alone. I'm here, and so is every you see in this facility. You are loved, needed. -Angela]?
Well, that's my first entry . Maybe I'll write another one tomorrow, like Angela told me, but I doubt it [Continue it tomorrow. I truly believe this will help you and speed up your recovery.-A].
~Signing off,
Jodi
