Dear diary,
I feel kinda silly writing this, but the therapist said it would help, so I'll give it a shot. It's been a little over two weeks since I came home all bloodied up. That's when father started sending me to see a psychiatrist. In his words, I'd become 'a threat to myself and to those around me'.
I didn't want to become a threat. I couldn't help it. I didn't know what yami was doing while he was in control, but whenever I woke up, I just found my way home. What could I have expected? It was inevitable that father would've jumped to conclusions.
But anyway, the counselor's really nice and he doesn't yell at me if I don't answer his questions. He doesn't get mad or cuss or anything, which I thought was weird. I haven't told him a lot, because I don't really know him. You don't go around telling all your personal problems to total strangers, unless you're in confession, right?
I don't know.
I just don't want him to know everything. Not yet. He might get angry then, when I tell him about the things I think of when I'm alone, or the pictures I get in my head when I listen to certain songs on the radio. As soon as I tell him the truth, he'll know I'm a freak, so I just want to have fun being friends right now.
He's really nice, but I know that's just his job. It doesn't particularly bother me, though. It's nice to have someone to talk to. And he has lots of great advice. I told him about the Catholic school back in London—about the kids there and how they treated me. And he said their teasing was just a sign of their weakness.
He went on to say that my enduring it without fighting back was a sign of my strength. He said the best thing to do in a situation like that would be to tell an adult immediately (I hadn't) and I thought for a second that he knew. Maybe he knew about yami's voice in my head and the way he treats me. Maybe he was secretly urging me to "tell an adult immediately" and fess up to him right there. I didn't.
One of the things he told father could help me was getting a pet. He said that the responsibility would do me a lot of good, and I liked that idea, because father never let me have a pet before. We went to the pound a couple days ago and father took me to see the dogs. He told me I could pick out whichever one I wanted.
But the more I looked at the dogs, the less I wanted one. I saw a little girl leaving with a cat and I told father I'd like to have a cat instead, but he didn't like that idea too much. I guess having a dog would make me tougher, but I won't get one. I want a cat.
Thursday is my eleventh birthday.
