My fingers ran over the smooth cover of the journal the hospital
psychiatrist had given me. I flipped the book open and sat with my pen
poised and ready over the front page.
When Dr. Jenkins gave the journal to me and gave me an assignment to write in it at least twice a week, I had thought that it would be easy. Never mind the fact that I had never in my life kept a journal before.
When the doctor gave me the journal, with its hard, blue cover, and ivory pages, she had asked me to write down everything that I was feeling, especially in regards to the Catherine incident. That's what everyone was calling it now: "the incident."
But it wasn't an incident; it was an attempted murder. An attempted murder that could have been prevented if only I had offered to go into the bathroom in Catherine's place.
It was over a week since I had heard Lindsay's tearful voice pleading with her mother to live. That voice haunted me. It was with me during the day, when I drank my daily cup of coffee, while I read the newspaper. And it was still there every night, waiting for me when I lay in bed, praying for sleep to come and pull me out of its grasps.
Taking a deep breath, I lowered the pen to the notebook paper.
Dear Journal,
I was never a religious person. My mother stopped taking me to church when I was only three or four, and my father was an atheist. So now, in the midst of this terrible "incident," it amazes me that the only thing I can do is pray. But I don't pray that Catherine will wake up, or even that everything will be okay. I pray that I can go back in time and take Catherine's place.
I know I told everyone that I took all of those pills accidentally, that I just wanted some sleep. But now I'm beginning to doubt that. I didn't do it consciously, I wasn't aware of my desire to die. But I'm beginning to believe that it was there, somewhere below the surface. And that scares me more than anything.
When Dr. Jenkins gave the journal to me and gave me an assignment to write in it at least twice a week, I had thought that it would be easy. Never mind the fact that I had never in my life kept a journal before.
When the doctor gave me the journal, with its hard, blue cover, and ivory pages, she had asked me to write down everything that I was feeling, especially in regards to the Catherine incident. That's what everyone was calling it now: "the incident."
But it wasn't an incident; it was an attempted murder. An attempted murder that could have been prevented if only I had offered to go into the bathroom in Catherine's place.
It was over a week since I had heard Lindsay's tearful voice pleading with her mother to live. That voice haunted me. It was with me during the day, when I drank my daily cup of coffee, while I read the newspaper. And it was still there every night, waiting for me when I lay in bed, praying for sleep to come and pull me out of its grasps.
Taking a deep breath, I lowered the pen to the notebook paper.
Dear Journal,
I was never a religious person. My mother stopped taking me to church when I was only three or four, and my father was an atheist. So now, in the midst of this terrible "incident," it amazes me that the only thing I can do is pray. But I don't pray that Catherine will wake up, or even that everything will be okay. I pray that I can go back in time and take Catherine's place.
I know I told everyone that I took all of those pills accidentally, that I just wanted some sleep. But now I'm beginning to doubt that. I didn't do it consciously, I wasn't aware of my desire to die. But I'm beginning to believe that it was there, somewhere below the surface. And that scares me more than anything.