June 25th 1999,
So my therapist seems to think that keeping a journal will help me channel the anger I've been throwing out at her. I think she just doesn't want to have to deal with me once a week anymore and she figures she can cut back to twice a month instead. Fine with me, she's a hack if I've ever seen one and the only reason I even agreed to go is so my father would stop worrying himself to death over me.
What am I even supposed to tell the woman? 'How do you feel about your mother's death?' Well gee lady, how the hell do you think I feel? The most asinine question really. I guess she figures that after two years I'd stop missing her or the guilt I felt would just miraculously go away. I've wondered quite a few times now just where she got her psychiatric degree. Then again, maybe my father just didn't do his homework and she's the hack I've believed her to be.
Something tells me though that she wouldn't appreciate me using her wonderful little idea to rail about her possibly fraudulent license. I guess two paragraphs of it is proof positive that maybe I do have some anger issues to exorcise.
Brooke is always telling me I'm too broody, and I know she's right. But I don't know how to be any other way. Even before Mom died I wasn't the most enthusiastic person. It's a wonder Brooke and I even became friends. That's the one thing in my life these last few years that's been a total constant for me though. Even in the midst of my cursing of everything in my world, I was still thankful for Brooke. I don't think there's been a day that's gone by since then that she hasn't managed to find me, wherever I may have been. The cemetery, the Cape Fear Bridge looking down into the deceptively tranquil water below, the intersection where my mother ran her last red light. No matter where I was, Brooke had some kind of homing signal on me, because she would always show up, not saying a word and just scoop me up in a hug, rubbing my back in comfort.
And I can't imagine what those days would have been like without her there. I really think Brooke saved my life. And she's still at it. Every school day she's plopped at the foot of my bed at 7am sharp, making sure I'm not tempted to play hooky. We walk to school, her arm firmly ensconced in the crook of my own. Sometimes I wonder when she has tome for herself, all the babysitting she does.
I've talked with Dr. Farrell about my friendship with Brooke. She thinks it good that I have one constant thing in my life, especially with my Dad away so much on jobs. And I think that's the only thing that I've agreed with her about.
In any case, I guess I'll give this writing thing a try. Who knows, it might just end up being cathartic, we'll see.
Peyton
I remember that psychiatrist of hers, she absolutely hated her. I was always after Peyton to try and be open-minded about therapy, but she just was not in the right frame of mind I guess. Which is an oxymoron in itself.
I'm glad she appreciated my constant hovering though. I think there were times when she wanted to throttle me for being so over-protective, but I just couldn't help myself.
With a rueful smile on my face I flip the page to the next entry.
AN: So it's REALLY short, I know, but I'm getting a tad blocked with the journal entries, so I figured one short one was better than another week of nothing. Let me know though how you'd rather the updates be. Longer intervals between them, but not as short. Or more often and smaller in size. I'll bow to your suggestions ;) As always, thanks so much for reading.
