Giving in

Dear Journal,                                                                             

         9/12/06

         I’m calling you a journal and not a diary because a diary is a girlie thing. Not that I’m against girlie things, but I am a guy after all. The only reason I’m writing in here is because I have to. I don’t even like writing.  I’m just going to write five lines to please them. They won’t read this piece of shit anyway. They never do. This journal is supposed something we want to do intrinsically, whatever the hell that means.


Dear Journal,

         9/16/06

         Who the hell do these people think they are? I would seriously consider running away if I wasn’t in the middle of nowhere.  I hope all these people rot in hell. I know that’s a mean thing to think, but maybe I’m a mean person. OKAY? ARE YOU HAPPY??? I AM MEAN!  See I can admit things! I can’t believe they expect me to cooperate. My mom just sent me off without a goodbye. The only contact I had from her is a letter basically saying that she did what she thought was best.  How does she know what’s best for me?  Now, thanks to her, I’m in the middle of nowhere, going crazy.


Dear Journal,

         9/20/06

                George Fox, one of the Authority members here, gave me a book to read called Anne Frank. I’m not really one to read books, but this one isn’t so bad. She’s actually worse off than me, and the whole book is a diary. She calls her diary Kitty. Maybe I should give you a name too.  I guess I could name you after my sister, June. I miss her. Of all my family members, she’s the only one I miss.


Dear June,                                                                                                    

         9/21/06

         I guess I’ve kept you in the dark about a few things. Maybe I should start with where I am. They call it The Smitherson Facility, a mental institution. I know, now you’re thinking, so he is crazy. No, I’m not. At least, I don’t think so. But this place isn’t your average mental institution.
             
              I don’t get to see anyone, except other patients and nurses. Every now and then I see a psychologist.  It always smells like piss and white and blue are the only clothing colors I’ve seen for weeks. There are no visitors mainly because this place is in Montana in the middle of nowhere where it would be population zero if it weren’t for the institution.
         
                My mom sent me here because this had the number one rating for turning people around and putting them on the right track. The room I’ve been assigned to is empty except for a bed, this journal, and now the Anne Frank book. The only time I get to leave the room is for meals, mid-day exercises and group activities. We even have a flippin bedtime, 9:00pm; I don’t think I ever went to bed that early until I came here. I hate this place. I want to go home. No, maybe I should just flee the country.
         
                The main reason this place is different though, is because it’s teenagers only; teenagers with unacceptable behavior patterns, or as I like to say, teenagers who royally fucked up. 


Dear June,                                                                                 

         9/25/06

         Today was the monthly drug search. I don’t know why they even bother with drug searches. Do they honestly think we can get away with doing drugs in these hell-hole rooms? I actually found out today that there’s a camera in every room, even the bathroom. I swear if there’s a perv security guard, I’m going to kill him.
         
                So the drug search is conducted in the morning, and we all have to stand outside our rooms while some guy who thinks he is the king shit, goes through our rooms. Of course I’m the first one who gets searched. I think I must have a suspicious looking face or something because people always think I’m up to no good.
         
                  “You're Kyle Brennon right?” the drug searcher asked me. This guy was two inches shorter than me, which isn’t really that bad because I am 6’4, but the point I’m trying to make was that he was trying to intimidate me. Sure he only asked me my name, but I knew he was going to say something else.
         
                I didn’t answer him and he sneered, showing off some yellow teeth.
         
                “You think you’re above everyone don’t you? You’re worthless,” he said.
         
                  His words really didn’t bother me, especially since they were coming from some guy who doesn’t know how to brush his teeth and probably hasn’t gotten laid in years. He brushed past me and entered my room. The door closed behind us and the search began.
         
                  People usually don’t tell you the details of drug searches. I ignorantly thought it was a pat down, and then maybe he’d look under my bed sheets. The part of drug searches people usually don’t tell you is that more personal places are searched.
         
                    If it wasn’t for the 6’10 bodyguard in the corner, I probably would have knocked this drug searcher guy in the face when he asked me to take off my pants, bend over and spread my legs. 

                    For a second, I was terrified that I was about to get raped. But no, he actually thought I was pathetic enough to hide drugs in my butt. What kind of place am I in?

                    When he allowed me to pull my pants back up, he gave me a look of dissatisfaction. “You seem to be pretty clean, Kyle. You’re not living up to your reputation,” he said with narrowed beady eyes.

                  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I asked.
                 
                  A small glimmer of triumph flitted across his eyes, and I inwardly cursed when I realized that I let his words get to me. He seemed pretty happy that he got me to talk, and then turned toward my bed where the Anne Frank book and you were laying.
               
                  “So you like to read?” he asked, and picked up the book. “You think you’re smart or something?”
               
                I didn’t answer him. He really was starting to piss me off. I was getting to the point where I didn’t care that a body guard was standing quietly in the corner.

                It wasn’t really until he picked you up and started going through your pages that my anger boiled. And it wasn’t until the body guard had tackled me to the ground that I realized I had punched the king shit drug searcher in the eye.

                I think I have anger problems.


Dear June,                                                               

         9/26/06

         Hey June, today is your anniversary. Not my journal, June’s anniversary, but my sister, June’s anniversary. I stole a flower from a vase in the dining room and put it on my windowsill for you. I know you like flowers. I want you to know that I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.



Dear June,                                                            

         10/3/06

         I haven’t written in awhile because apparently I needed to be punished for punching the drug searcher in the face, who by the way has developed a nice black eye. They wanted me to say sorry to him. HAHA, very funny. I spit in his face instead.
         
                So apparently, spitting in someone’s face is not acceptable behavior, and I had to spend a week in detainment, being cut off from everyone and everything. No one could possibly understand what boredom is until they experience that. When I was in there, I really wished I had you with me. I guess I like writing more than I thought.
I never thought I would I would be so grateful to get out of that room and sit next to delinquent teens during meals. I think I would rather drink rat poison then be put in solitary confinement again. On top of solitary confinement, I have to see a psychologist tomorrow.



Dear June,                                               

         10/4/06

         This was the second time I got to see the psychologist since I’ve been here. We’re supposed to meet with him randomly three times a month. I don’t see the point though; he doesn’t give me insight or solve my problems like I thought psychologists were supposed to do. He’s just some mousy guy in a leather chair that pretty much interrogates people.
         
              The first time I saw him I didn’t say a thing. All he wanted me to do was admit to my “problems”, but he had everything written down in some file with my name on it. I didn’t see the point of me admitting them. I know what I did.
         
              But because I didn’t “cooperate” last time, I only got one meal for three days. So I decided to at least say a little today.
         
              The psychologists name is Dr. Smitherson, which makes sense since that’s the name of the mental institution. He was sitting in his leather chair as usual. I swear that chair is probably bigger than him. He looked like he was disappearing in the black folds of leather.
         
                I was sitting about five feet away from him on hard wooden bench. He looked at me for five minutes before he said something.
         
                “So I heard you were in confinement,” he began.
         
                I nodded.
         
                “Want to talk about it?”
         
                “Not really.”
         
                He didn’t seem pleased with my answer, but he should have been happy I was talking at all.
         
                “You punched Mr. Drunaldi in the face.” I guess Mr. Drunaldi was the drug searcher.          

              “Why did you punch him?” he asked. He clearly didn’t care whether I wanted to talk about this or not. Why did he even bother asking?
             
              I stared, expressionless. “He deserved it.”
         
              “He was doing his job.”
         
              “He was being a dick about it,” I said.
         
              He nodded slightly. “Maybe.”
               
              Wow, he agreed with me. Well, almost.
             
              “Can I ask you a question, Kyle?”
             
              I almost said, “You just did,” but I refrained myself.
             
              “What do you think the meaning of life is?” he asked.
             
              I was surprised by the question. It wasn’t something I gave much thought before. I was going to say, “getting laid,” but again, I refrained myself.
             
              “I guess, it’s to try and survive,” I said after a few minutes.
             
              He rubbed his brow and took a deep breath. “I think maybe, you should try and write down five things you are grateful for,” he said.
               
              What the hell? Where did that come from? I don’t understand this guy. I don’t have much to be grateful for. I’m in an institution for crying out loud.
               
              When I didn’t say anything, he went on. “So, a few days ago was your sister June’s anniversary of death. I thought--”
               
              “Fuck you,” I said before he could go on.
               
              And then the session ended because the body guard in the corner pinned me down. Apparently he thought I was going to attack Dr. Smitherson. Which in my defense, I wasn’t going to. I swear I wasn’t. Okay maybe I wanted to, but I don’t always act on my thoughts.



Dear June,                                                                 

         10/6/06

         Okay I’m supposed to write what I’m grateful for. What am I supposed to say? I’m grateful for the god-awful soup they serve every lunch. Well, I guess it’s better than no soup at all. My mother would probably say something like, “think of all the poor children starving in Africa.” 
         
                And my mom could be something I’m grateful for. No, not could be. I am grateful for her. She did raise me and bring me into the world. Though, I really wish she didn’t send me here. I guess I can forgive her. I guess I deserved it.
         
                I’m grateful my mom still loves me after what I’ve done.
         
                I’m grateful I have a journal to write in.
         
              Okay this isn’t so hard; four down, one to go. Well, I’m definitely not grateful for these weird blue hospital clothes I have to wear. I’d rather be naked.
         
                For my fifth grateful thing, I guess I’m grateful to be alive.
         
                Maybe Dr. Smitherson asked me to write these because the meaning of life isn’t just about surviving life but also enjoying it.

                Or maybe, he was just messing with me.
         

Dear June,                                                            

         10/11/06

         I finished Anne Frank today and gave it back to George Fox. I only mentioned him once, but there’s not much to say about him. I have no idea what his job is here, but I know he’s somewhere on top.

                All I know is he’s probably one of the coolest guys. He’s one of those old guys that probably spent most of his life getting high listening to the Rolling Stones, and then somehow turned his life around and landed a well paying, respected job. I think that’s pretty kickass. 
         
                “So how’d you like the book?” George asked when I gave it back to him.
         
                I bit on my lip. “It was kinda depressing. I can’t believe she still thought all people are good at heart after everything she went through.”
         
                George nodded and smiled at my assessment. “Let her story be a lesson to us all,” he said.
         
                A lesson? I guess it did make me grateful for how fortunate my life is.
         
                George’s smile faded and he looked at me more seriously. “Hey, you’re a smart kid. What’s up with you giving lip to everyone around here and not cooperating?”
         
                I rolled my eyes. Why did he have to get on my case and right when I was thinking that he was the only cool one here?
         
                I shrugged. “I don’t feel like giving in.”
         
              “Kid, giving in doesn’t mean you’re weak, you know. It means you have enough guts to face your faults and fears.”
         
              I didn’t say anything. Maybe he’s right.
         
              Do I have enough guts?


Dear June,                                                                         

         10/15/06                    

         I saw Dr. Smitherson today, but this time it was different. The body guard was standing closer to me this time. They clearly thought I was going to try something. I leaned back against the cold cement wall and waited for the interrogating to begin.
         
              “I feel like we’re not getting anywhere,” Dr. Smitherson said.
         
              Finally, something we agree on.
         
              “Why are you here, Kyle?” he asked.
         
                I hesitated before I answered. “I messed up.”
         
              “Yeah, you did.”
         
                I don’t understand how this guy has enough patience to deal with me. If I were him I would have cursed me out and sent me home by now.
         
              “You know, I can’t help you unless you want to be helped.”
         
              I grimaced. “Maybe I don’t need help.”
         
              “Everyone needs help in at least one point in their life.”
         
              I looked down. I didn’t want to admit that I need help. Help is for the weak, right?
         
              “Kyle, what happened last year on September twenty-sixth?” he asked.
         
              My heart practically stopped at that question. Why did he have to ask that? Maybe this was what George meant by giving in and facing my faults. I wish I could forget everything, but that’s impossible.
         
                Dr. Smitherson was about to take my silence for ignoring him again until I said, “I was on a trip.”
         
                He raised his eyebrows, surprised to hear me answer him. “A trip?”
         
                “An acid trip,” I said.
         
                He nodded. “Did you do drugs a lot?”
         
                I gave a slight nod. It wasn’t something I was proud of. I only did them because I was bored with life. This was the first time I admitted to doing drugs to anyone here, but everyone knew. It was in my file.
         
                “What were you feeling that day?” he asked, looking at me with concern.
         
                I bit the inside of my lip. Does this guy actually care about me?
         
                “I-I wanted to off myself,” I mumbled.
         
                “Why?”
         
                I shrugged, but I knew exactly why. I felt like my life was a waste. I was a worthless failing student who did drugs. Sure, I had a high enough IQ to ace school, but school was so boring. Life was so boring and pointless.
         
                After some silence he asked me, “Why did you get in that car?”
         
                My heart hammered in my chest, and I thought I was going to vomit. I remember that scene so well. It played over and over in my head for months, haunting my dreams. My hand trembled as memories rushed back to September twenty-sixth.
         
                My mom was at the neighbors, and I was supposed to be watching June. I was pathetically doing drugs, though. I didn’t let June see that of course. Not my little sister. She was so innocent and cute--only five years old.
         
                But that time, I wasn’t doing drugs for fun. I wanted to kill myself--not from an overdose, though. I thought that if I was on acid, then it wouldn’t be so scary. I thought that I wouldn’t chicken out. I didn’t want to be that kid that attempted suicide and then pathetically had to live with the mistake of doing it wrong.
         
                I am that kid though.
         
                I took my mom’s car. For some bizarre reason, I always thought it would be cool to die by falling off a cliff. I knew a place three miles away. Not a huge cliff or anything, but big enough for me to die from.
         
                I wasn’t really paying attention to the road. I thought, what was the point of following the rules if I was going to kill myself anyway?
         
                I couldn’t bring myself to keep thinking about the past. My heart felt like it was going to burst from my chest and my breathing quickened. Dr. Smitherson didn’t say anything. Sometimes he really knew when not to talk.
         
                I took a deep breath, and I didn’t realize a tear fell until I felt the wetness on my cheek.
         
                “I didn’t see her,” was all I could say.
         
                I didn’t see my cute, innocent June playing on the sidewalk and running to say hi to her big brother driving the truck.
         
                Dry sobs radiated my chest.
         
                “I killed her,” I whispered.
         
                And then I did something I hadn’t done in years; I cried.


Dear June,                                                            

         10/16/06

         I can’t help but feel that the wrong kid died. I was the one that wanted to die, but I was the one that lived. Life is so painfully ironic. I feel like I should be punished for what I’ve done. I killed one of the few people I love. Maybe that’s my punishment; to live with what I’ve done. I wonder if Anne Frank would consider me a good person at heart. I wonder if June would.


Dear June,                                                            

         10/17/06

         This time I’m writing to my sister, not my journal.

              I’m sorry, June. I’m sorry that I didn’t try in school; that wasted my high school years on drugs; that I yelled at mom; that I didn’t play enough with you; that I took my life for granted. I’m sorry that I killed you.
         
              I hope that you can forgive me. I don’t deserve it, I know. I just hope that you’re sitting in heaven somewhere playing with pretty flowers like the ones you would always pick from mom’s garden. I really hope there’s a heaven.
         
              I know you should be the one mourning over my death, not the other way around. Life isn’t fair. I’m going to make it up to you, June. I don’t know how exactly. I won’t do drugs ever again, that’s for sure. I’ll try really hard to be a good person. I’ll live for you.
             
              I’ll make you proud, I promise.