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Willa: February 17, 2017

I'm pathetic. I can't even sit down for a second without the pen slipping out of my hand. God, I don't even know what to write. My name? Whatever. This is a notebook, not a celebrity autograph book. This notebook doesn't even care. It's an inanimate object, for Christ's sake. Then again, no one cares. My husband is too busy to listen. My kids expect me to be happy all the time. Well, guess what. I'm not. I feel like crap. All the time. The only person who ever listened to me was my mom.

Where do I even start? Where do I go with this? I don't know what my psychiatrist expects me to do. Jenny, if you are reading this, you can stop now. Unless you're already asleep. I wouldn't blame you if you were. I'm about to fall asleep.

Whatever. The point is... what the hell do you care? It's your job to pretend to care. You're just pretending. Everyone in this fucking world is pretending. We wear these ridiculous masks and stuff.

This is giving me a headache. I should see a doctor.

So, let's see. I guess I'll have to pretend that this stupid notebook is listening. Let's start from the beginning. Hi! I'm Willa Reid. Nice to meet you. (And if you can read between the lines, you'll know it means "What the fuck do you want?")

Oh, boy. Now I'm gonna have to go all emo. I'll start telling you a fucking sob story that isn't fucking true. Okay. Maybe I'm a little depressed. Or a lot. But the truth is, I shouldn't be. I should be fine. People have gone through much worse than I have and they aren't depressed. Millions of people around the world are starving to death and here I am, complaining about how fucking pitiful I am.

I guess I haven't had it all that great either. Sure, I'm not living in the slums of Mumbai, struggling to survive, but I'm not living like Donald Trump either. Oh, Lord. This, I'm certain, is the first CEO of America Incorporated.

I remember it like a dream. Yes, I'm gonna start with all that cliche shit because I don't know what else to write. Anyway, the dream was a very vivid one. Ever since it happened, I haven't been able to close my eyes without summoning the memories of it all. The sirens shrieking across many octaves. The blood-stained gurney. The web of IVs. My mother's eyes, shriveled and quilted in wrinkles, closed. Her lip parted to reveal one of her crooked, golden teeth that had been there for as long as I can remember. It was pretty frantic.

I visited my mother's condominium every day before she died. But that day, I was sitting in a whole lane of traffic, queued behind a fatal car wreck with the groceries for my mom dispersed throughout the back seat. It was a kind of butterfly effect. One thing came after another. Sometimes I wonder if I had been there just ten minutes before, my mother would not be dead and I wouldn't be so fucking depressed.

This is making me feel like shit. It's almost 9 o'clock and I have an appointment with Jenny at 9:30. God, I hope she doesn't read this. I'm considering erasing this and rewriting the whole damn thing with less touchy stuff. I'll do it while I'm driving and then I'll die in a car crash. Then again, that wouldn't be such a bad thing. I wouldn't have to see that fucking psychiatrist anymore. Jesus, what the fuck has my life come to? I'm gonna die if she reads this. She'll think I'm a suicidal nut job. But I guess that's actually an accurate statement.

Finally the end of this first entry. Hopefully the last! Fingers crossed.

Now how the hell do I end this. I can't say Love, Willa for Chrissake because you're a fucking notebook. So here it goes:

Fuck,
Willa.

Additional Content (because Jenny told me to "elaborate" on my feelings):
I have nothing to say about my feelings. But here's how everything went the rest of the day. I talked to Jenny and she asked me to pull out my notebook. She asked if she could read it. Of course, I said yes, even though I didn't want to. She was battering her fucking eyelashes to "kindly force me to give her my diary." While she was reading it, I stared at the painting on the wall behind her. It was a cat nursing her baby. Yeah, I know. Creepy.

Surprisingly, when she finished, she didn't seem the slightest bit offended. She started saying crap in her robotic monotone. "Shall we talk about how you're feeling?" "I hope you know I'm here for you." Blah, blah, bullshit. But strangely enough she didn't mention anything I wrote about her. By the end of the session, she could tell that I was about ready to jump out of her window, so she told me: "Keep writing. But I promise not to read anymore of your diary." At least that woman has some sense of morality.

After that, I picked up fast food from McDonald's and tried to eat away my pain. Although it helped while I was eating, I went back to my crappy mood as soon as I licked the last crumb off my finger.

By then, it was time to pick up Sylvia and Chloe (I would inform you that those are my children, ages 7 and 5 respectively, but what the fuck do you care?) from school. I tried to put on a smile and said in my high-pitched baby voice, "Hey, guys! How was your day?" I didn't fucking care about their day, though. But don't worry. I'm a good mom when I'm not depressed.

When we got home we decided to play "princesses", a game the girls made up where we each are given a castle (or in our case, a stack of pillows) and we each hide an item underneath our castle. Then, we lie on top of the stack of pillows and try to guess what it is based on how it feels.

It was an all girls night since my husband was out-of-town for work. He went somewhere in the Netherlands; Amsterdam, Rotterdam, or who-gives-a-damn about where he went. Anyway, he won't be back until next Thursday. So, I have the kids for the next six freaking days. Yay! (Not.)

Anyway, we ate dinner and then I got the girls ready for bed. Then we read a story like we always did. This time it was Jack in the Beanstalk. Sylvia pointed out that we read that book last night. Chloe suggested we try a new book. (Honestly, thank the Lord for that because I didn't know if I could stand another night of fairytale bullshit.)

I went to look for a new children's book in the attic but failed to find one. Instead, I found an old notebook that I had never seen before. Curiously, I opened it up and on the front page was my mother's sprawled out handwriting, the little calligraphic curves and all. Tears welled up in my eyes as I reminisced the moments when she was alive. But I managed to wipe away my tears to read the first page. It had one simple sentence: This notebook is dedicated to my beloved daughter, Willa Jackson Reid. Shocked to see my name, I gazed at the perfectly-inked penmanship of my mother. It wasn't until I heard Sylvia calling me that I remembered why I came up to the attic. I leapt to my feet with the notebook tucked under my armpit. I scanned the room for a new children's book and finally settled on The Ugly Duckling, which we hadn't read in years. Surely they wouldn't notice.

And to my surprise, they didn't question my book choice. They simply ignored it and listened to the story as they closed their eyes into slumber. Either that, or they were too tired to care what the story was anymore.

I was three pages in when they were sound asleep. I turned off their bedroom lights and closed the door, leaving it slightly ajar as an overprotective mother always does. Then, I retreated to my room to read my mother's notebook. The pages looked as though they had been frayed from age. And they had. I knew that as soon as I read the heading: March 9, 1959. I carefully read each individual word until darkness consumed me. I had had a long day.