All The Things I Never Said: Asylum

II

Wendy Peyser,

All of the doctors I've spoken with have diagnosed me with the same, threatening illness: clinical depression. Acute trauma was, as well, mentioned, but it was something that didn't really take me by surprise. What I mean is, who wouldn't be disturbed by the foul things within those heavily sanitized (or so they say), overly-scrubbed walls at Briarcliff? No one. And they even took you away from me, to make matters worse.
Sister Jude's caning is more than enough to create a permanent scar, but adding Thredson to the equation just breaks my mind like ice against the cold, hard floor.
My sanity left like the way I put out a cigarette once I'm done, and I've long stopped believing in silence because the thoughts since then haven't stopped.
I'm still being checked for complications and inconsistencies by good doctors-a dying breed, I must say-and we have sessions every Tuesday or whenever I'm not busy with my book. It's called Maniac: One Woman's Story of Survival. I'm sure you would've been proud of me, you always were even when no one else was.
For now, they want me to do this. I hope you don't mind. Therapy, they say. The thought makes me miss you even more, but it's something I must do to get better. Not that I believe it works, it just, in a way, brings me closer to where you are, and I'd trade the world for it.
I love you.

Lana Winters