Dear diary,

It's been seven months since the events of my red eye flight, and five months since that stupid therapist told me that keeping a journal might help me work through my 'thoughts and feelings'. He's a quack, I'm convinced. But, Dad says he's okay and worth the money, so I'm giving it more time before I call it quits. He knows that me and psychiatrists don't mix. He shouldn't be surprised, not really. I probably shouldn't bad month my therapist too much since I have to show this to him every so often, but he did say that I could write anything in it that I wanted, and seeing as how I've only written in it three times since I was supposed to start…

But anyway, things at the Lux Atlantic are going as well as can be expected. We've been in a pretty nasty slump for the past few months, but then again I'm not surprised. When someone is nearly blown up while staying in a hotel, it's a given that people aren't going to want to stay there. Whoever said that the only bad press you can have is no press was wrong. The press that we've gotten has been pretty darn shitty. The bosses aren't to happy, but they're as understanding as can be given the circumstances. On the plus side though, they made Cynthia into a manager. She deserves it, especially after what happened. If someone can handle stressful situations, it's her. Well, after a mini freak out session, but she's getting better. Suite 4080 is nearly done being rebuilt, though I really doubt that anyone is going to want to stay there. We'll just add it to the list of rooms in the crisis folder.

Dad seems to be handling things rather well, given that he shot a man. But considering who that man was, I don't think he's losing much sleep over the matter. But me on the other hand; I honestly can't remember the last time that I had a decent nights sleep. Actually, forget that. I can't remember the last time I actually really slept. It's like every time I shut my eyes, I see his. Those impossibly blue eyes are just staring at me. They won't go away. It makes me want to just tear my hair out. It's driving me crazy. He's haunting me, I know it. I can't sleep for more than an hour or two without being woken up by a nightmare. Night terrors are what they're called. Not that I'm unfamiliar with it. After the incident in the parking lot I got them all the time. But they had finally gone away. I could finally sleep through the night without waking every five fucking minutes. But now, because of HIM, it's all over again. He's ruining my life night after night. I try to cover the circles as best I can, but makeup can only do so much. I know people see it. I see it in the way they look at me, and treat me. Like I'm walking on eggshells. But in a way, I guess I am.

Everywhere I go, there he is. He's in every man I see. His eyes there. Hair over there. I even think I hear his voice. His voice that is before the pen. My therapist says that it'll pass, that it's just a phase. I barely go out in public by myself anymore. Either Cynthia or Dad go out with me. I'm isolating myself, but I can't help it. I should stop. Yet knowing what I should be doing and actually doing it are starkly different things. But its been months. How long can I go on like this? I feel like I'm going to go crazy, if I'm not already. I've become obsessed. Maybe as obsessed as he was when he was watching me. I call the police station nearly everyday on the status of how he is. But they keep telling me the same thing. No change, and if there was I'd be the first to know. No change means that he's still in the hospital (but they won't tell me which one). That he's still recovering. I don't know if I believe them anymore. Half of me thinks that they're just saying that so I won't keep asking. But they should realize that I won't stop. Never.

I was an idiot in my last session. I slipped on the one thing that I didn't want him to know.

The kiss.

The one in the airplane lavatory.

I told him that it didn't mean anything to me, and that I don't think about it. But that was a lie. I think about it everyday. His lips on mine. Sometimes I swear my lips still tingle. That's wrong, right? I'm not supposed to feel this way about the man that hijacked my life. I'm supposed to feel revolted. But I don't, very much the opposite than that. I must be really messed up in the head if I liked that kiss. But the fact is, he made me feel more like a woman than I have since that day. I felt desirable. Wanted. And sometimes, after thinking on his kiss in the dead of night, I wonder how he's doing. I mean, really doing. How his rehabilitation is coming along. If the puncture wound on his neck has healed yet (it must have, it's been long enough, right?). If they were able to take the bullets out okay, or if they're still there. Does he get any visitors? Is he lonely?

This is all ridiculous, I know. But I can't stop myself.

I need to get on with my life. But my life just resolves around Jackson Rippner, and it feels like it always will.

It just all seems so hopeless right now.

Well, you said to write everything I was thinking. So here it is.

Maybe I just find it easier to write all my thoughts than say them, seems less judgmental to me.

Until my next breakdown,

Lisa

Here you go. It's a lot sooner than I thought. But I got really good inspiration and just sat and typed it (which is all I seem to be doing this semester).

I actually like this chapter, which is rare. I hope you like it too. I felt that there needed to be much more of how Lisa is feeling and all that jazz. It'll pick up more in the coming chapters, I promise. It won't be this boring for long...I hope. So now do what you do best. Review!...please. :o)