What if you were a normal, healthy, twenty-year-old and you hated your life? I know, sounds like something out of every teen drama, right? Things always go wrong, people laugh at you and shun you, treat you like a leper because you were 'strange.' Enduring the torment of being different?

I lived with that every day of my life, every moment just because I lived and breathed for something other than the latest fashion trend, or debating who the hottest wide receiver was, or whatever. I slept, ate and drank Pirates of the Caribbean.

And I'm not just talking about the movie. The ride is what started it all. My parents would drop me off there when Disneyland opened, and come back when the sun was going down and I'd still be there. I made pirate jokes, wrote pirate stories, wore pirate clothes I picked up at a costume store. And not those lame costumes, you know the ones I'm talking about…they look like they've come from the back of a K-mart store and there is nothing you can do to make them look even remotely real. No lame ass costumes for me. I had the whole package. I'm talking real leather belt, authentic poofy-sleeved shirt, dark breeches and the boots that are just the coolest. Bucket boots. You know, the kind that should be up to your knees, but instead it folds over? Yeah. I had a pair of those. I wore them and the rest of my costume day in and day out. My mother had to fairly knock me unconscious to get them off of me just to wash them.

As if that wasn't enough, I went around school shouting "Shiver me timbers!" and knew the entire song, "A Pirate's Life for Me" and would sing it with the least provocation. I even remember a time when I was sent to the principal's office for telling a teacher I was going to make him walk the plank. I know what you're thinking, and my mother thought the same thing. So she did some drastic changing in both of our lives.

She pulled me out of public school, enrolling me in the all-girls' hellhole of Saint Catherine's. I still shudder when I think of the two years I spent there. She also took away my pirate outfit, my earrings; she made me unravel all of my beaded braids and comb my hair. She also burned my bandanna. Burned it! I'm not talking just throwing it out with the banana peels and yogurt cartons, no; she straight up lit it with her butane lighter, right there in the middle of the kitchen. Needless to say, I was upset. I didn't take too well to the adjustment; our relationship deteriorated and I became one of those stereotypical pubescent kids who hated their parents. But, in our case it worked. She avoided me, and I avoided her. I failed classes, she'd lecture, and I would just roll my eyes when she turned her back.

Okay, so you know a little background as to how I came to be in the state I am in now. But you really don't know who I am, or even, where I am. If you could see what I see, you'd wish you didn't. I am currently a resident of Shady Palms Mental Health Center, where they drop the crazies who refuse to progress in their treatments. The walls are bare; they don't allow pictures to break up the monotony of the chipping paint. The bed is against the far wall, away from the big door with the viewing window that makes me feel like a fucking goldfish. You ever felt that way? Trust me, it isn't fun. I don't recommend it. But anyway, I'm getting ahead of myself.

This whole thing started about two years ago, when Disney decided to make a movie. And in making that movie, they changed my life forever. They introduced, an already over-the-deep-end pirate-lover, to Captain Jack Sparrow. The first time I saw the movie I almost fainted. I'm sure a lot of girls could say that, with Johnny Depp and Orlando Bloom in the same movie together. Gasp! But anyway, that was not my reason for feeling faint. I was under the thrall of Captain Jack Sparrow. Captain Jack had this charisma about him that fairly screamed at the buried portion of my soul, the part that had long since been silenced, but now awakened by the swashbuckling tale and pulsing with longings for the open ocean.

My pirate obsession resurfaced. I flaked from my job, my friends, and the current boyfriend who was more interested in increasing his stock holdings than what I was up to. Only when I started fooling around with kohl and braiding beads, coins and bone into my hair did he ask me if something was bothering me. I assured him nothing was the matter, and began a full-scale search for the perfect pirate outfit. He would shrug off the light under the computer room door at three in the morning, thinking my incessant scanning of E Bay was me trying to find the best costume. Halloween was only three months away, after all. I won't divulge his name, because it is not important, nor is it relevant to this story.

My name, I'm not sure it's important either, but I'm going to give it to you anyway. Chloe, the name is Chloe. I would tell you my last name, but there is major dispute among the colleagues here at Shady Palms as to this certain fact. They say my name is Chloe McIntyre. I say that it is Chloe Sparrow. And before you leave this as the ranting of a psychotic mental patient, let me tell you one piece of evidence to back my story. I have his ring. The one that Jack Sparrow wore throughout the movie; the silver one with a black looking marble laid in it? Ring any bells? Well that ring is on my finger, and they can't explain where it came from. But I can. I'm not sure it's physically possible, but I know I went into the movie, found and fell in love with the Captain and he with me.

Believe me or not, but it's his ring I have on my finger, and his face forever etched upon my heart. And if you want to hear the tale, I'll tell you.