**Disclaimer: All characters, settings, and other copyrighted material belongs to J.K. Rowling and affiliates. Nothing belongs to me, with the sole exception of the story I've created using this copyrighted material.
I began writing this because I was told by my muggle psychiatrist that it would help sort through all of the problems in my head. Also, because, as I was told by the same muggle psychiatrist, it would help me with my verbal expression and social anxiety. I don't know how much I care about all of that. The only thing that really made me feel like writing on this frighteningly blank journal is that I would feel less lonely if I could talk to someone who really listens to me. And, as the muggle psychiatrist insists, what better listener than a blank page, right?
I've been using another journal to keep track of my medications. I don't have many, but I keep forgetting to take each one at the right time, so my mum made me start a log. That's the difference between the two of us, which I guess comes from the Weasley side of me… while mum and I might be similar in terms of bookishness and intelligence, my organization and attention to detail veer towards my dad. Basically, I can't keep track of much of anything, and I'm surprised that my grades at Hogwarts haven't gone to absolute shit because of it. Maybe I'm even smarter than mum. (Who am I kidding).
I'll skip past the boring bits, like my family history, or what I had to eat today, because those really aren't a part of the bigger picture. The bigger picture is, that, about six months ago, right after returning to school from the winter holidays, I was sent to the hospital wing, almost stark naked, with a bloody fistful of glass. I had smashed the mirror in my dormitory after taking a bath because, well, who likes their own body these days, or at least that's the explanation I gave Madam Baruch. She had sent an owl to my parents requesting that I be given a bit of time off school, and my muggle-born mum came running with, what do you know, a muggle psychiatrist. The muggle psychiatrist determined that I had social anxiety, clinical depression, self-harm tendencies, the list of diagnoses went on and on. Ultimately, my mum took me out of school for the rest of the term, I finished all of my classes via owl, and I haven't had one single letter from a friend asking whether I'm all right.
Ah, and there we run into the true issue. I haven't had one single letter from a friend asking whether I'm all right, or why I was out, or whether I would be returning to school. I guess maybe that's the start of the problem, and I would go into it more, but my hand is getting kind of sore, and since I never learned to hold my quill properly, and I don't really feel like making my writer's bump hurt any worse, I'll end it here for now. Huck just came in through the window, and it looks like a letter might actually be tied to his claw. Let's hope for the best.
