Dear Journal

February, 2nd, 2014

The winter months had always felt very dreary...

No.

During winter, my friends and I...

No. What friends do I have exactly?

My soul was beginning to darken like the rainy clouds around me...

No. Way too depressing.

I give up. I have no idea how people start journals.

I'm not a talented writer, let's get real.

I'm not dramatic or exciting. But my therapist insisted that I keep a journal, so here you are.

Hi journal! I'm Megan. It's so nice to meet you. Your white leather cover is just beautiful by the way.

I guess you should know why you are even here.

You're here so I can "get my feelings out," but I'm not one for talking about my problems. I usually just sarcasm my way out of things. Hopefully, this journal really does help and I can start being more emotionally stable. Or unstable? Whichever is more human.

So, I'll start with the easy ones first.

1. My math teacher hates me. There's a common problem. She gives me dirty looks and purposely calls on me when I obviously don't know the answer. I listen, copy notes, do my homework, sit still in class; I just can't do algebra.

2. I'm thoroughly convinced I have a stalker. His name is Don. No really, that's his name. It sounds like some old guy who wears bowling shirts everywhere he goes. He stares at me all the time. Even if I stare back and make awkward eye contact with him. He just continues. Last week he put a creepy note in my locker with glued-on red hearts, which made it look more like a second grade art project than a love letter.

3. I have yet to find a workplace that hires anyone at sixteen. Other than Wendy's or McDonald's. Which would be fine, if I wasn't horribly disgusted with greasy, fried food. But I am, so my options are limited. I applied for ten different jobs. Everything from store clerk to personal dog walker. No calls back.

4. For some reason my hair feels the need to fight with me every morning. Literally. I take the blow dryer to it and it fights back with frizz. Bad hair days? There just average days for me. I've tried every concoction out there, with no results. Oh, but my hair dresser can straighten it just fine. I should go to beauty school, just to learn the secrets of hairspray and the magical uses of curling irons.

5. My therapist has decided that I am too far gone to help and doesn't want to listen to me blabber on about my life anymore, and that's how we got here. Me writing in a journal, and you being forced to hear all about my personal problems. Lucky you.

I know what you're thinking. "Those are just her easy problems? Wow, this girl's messed up." According to my therapist, I'm not crazy. I'm in a "grieving process over things that happened to me in the past." Whatever that means. Really, I don't remember the past. The earliest memory I have is in fifth grade, when I fell off of a swing at recess and cried. Although I still have a scar on my knee, I don't think I'm grieving about it.

Obviously, he knows something I don't because I have nothing to be afraid or sad about. Other than normal teenager stuff, like grades and boys. It was creepy to know that someone knows more about your past than you do.

Shrinks are creepy. 

My therapist's name is Dr. John. His building is two streets down from the local mall. I always look out the window and secretly wish I were shopping. He always wears khakis and polos, even in the home pictures he had on his desk. He is in his thirties. His wife is pretty in a typical house wife kind of way. His children were young and happy, as far as I could tell.

And that's all I know about him. Surface things, nothing about his personality or opinions.

Therapists don't tell you much about themselves, just their name.

They would rather sit and listen. Or zone out and hand you a journal and let it do all the work.

I don't think it's working yet.

I still feel anxious and shaky. That was my main problem.

Sometimes I get freaked out. For no reason. It wasn't a full on panic attack, but it was pretty close. They are random and have no cause whatsoever.

That's why Mom dragged me to Dr. John's in the first place.

Mom worries about everything dealing with my well being. She's convinced my father screwed me up, though I don't understand how. I've only met the guy once. Mom and I were at the grocery store. He spoke with Mom, kissed my head and walked away.

Not that I cared that he wasn't around. He just...wasn't around. It never bothered my life, I mean-

Oops. Mom's calling for dinner, and I can't be late for that. It's ham sandwich night at the Hawthorne house.

So journal, I guess this is goodbye for now. I'll set you down on my nice comfy pillow and you can take a nap. I wish I could.