Welcome

[Elizabeth Johnson]

Dear journal,

I have no idea how to start one of these things. I haven’t written in a journal since I was about nine years old. I remember keeping up with daily entries for about a week before I finally just forgot about it. So, what does one do when their therapist hands them a journal and tells them to keep one? I don’t need to write down all my thoughts and secrets in a diary like some silly thirteen year old girl with a crush. I really don’t see how this is going to help me get over the bloody nightmares from my ‘ordeal.’ Especially after the stupid newspaper article today. I was just waiting to see something like this. ‘London girl, 17, kidnapped by stalker: found and rescued three days later by friend.’ Not that it was front page news or anything, in fact, it was a few sections back and my mum had to point it out to me. But anyway, back to my dilemma with this stupid journal. Shall I recount the visit to the therapist …


I sit down in the comfortable leather arm chair in the expensive looking office and the lady walks over to her desk, taking out a small, blank book. “Here. I think you’ll find writing about some of your experiences helpful,” she says, handing it to me. The therapist, a woman in about her mid forties with the same sort of patient air my mum has, smiles at me before taking the other armchair. Great. My mum is sure to get a kick out of this, I think to myself, looking down at the little book.

“Are you going to read it?” I ask plainly, not that I’m really bothered if she does. She’d probably be excited to get that sort of look into my mind.

“Only if you want me to. Sometimes it’s easier to write things down after a session is over. Your thoughts and feelings and things you might want to talk about at another time,” she explains with a short nod.

Uninterested, I set the journal on the coffee table and look at her expectantly. What do I care how much money every minute with this psychiatrist is costing my mum? “So now what? Shall I sit here and bitch about my mum and school and life?” I ask sarcastically, carefully avoiding the reason why I’m actually in therapy.

“Now we talk,” she says, again with this seemingly unending amount of patience.

“About what?” I ask. I’m really in no mood to make this easy for her. Hopefully she’s used to surly teenagers.

“Anything. School, your friends, your family, your boyfriend … your ordeal,” she answers. I really hate the way she says ordeal, all delicately like I’m going to break down sobbing and tell her every horrifying detail. And I can tell that’s what she really wants me to talk about most.

“How about my boyfriend. That’s always a good topic,” I decide coolly. The other choices were things that didn’t make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. Process of elimination. Brilliant.

“Okay. I understand he was the one who rescued you,” she says, glancing down at her notes. “What about him?”

I shrug. I had kind of been hoping I was just going to have to answer a few stupid questions then leave. But no, I actually am being expected to think about something intelligent to say and form into a conversation. A conversation with someone who has a PhD and is judging every word I say. I try to choose my words carefully. “Oh, he’s great. The whole saving my life thing really helped resolved some conflicts,” I finally toss out casually. Amusing myself now, I add, “He’s really good in bed too. Knows what he’s doing.”

The therapist glances up from her note taking with her eyebrows slightly raised, the only real sign of surprise on her face that I can read. I smirk. Of course, I’m seventeen years old. And all seventeen year olds are thinking about it and doing it, according to statistics that were made up by adults. I’m only setting out to prove this. Hah.

“What sort of conflicts did you two resolve?” she asks, obviously thinking that I was kidding about the other comment. I wasn’t.

“He cheated on me. But then he saves my life so, you know, I thought that sort of canceled things out. And he appreciates me more now I think,” I say, mostly just guessing. Although it’s nice to know in the back of my mind that these are really true, that Dashiell really does care about me that much. But in no way am I about to get sappy in front of this therapist.

“If it wasn’t him who saved you, would you still forgive him?” she asks and I resist from squirming in my seat. I hoped I could get away with stupid answers for longer than this but I know this question would probably tell one or two things about me.

“Yeah. Well, I thought I was going to die. I was ready to forgive everyone when I was rescued. I mean, just because I’m a coldhearted sarcastic bitch half the time doesn’t mean I want everyone to remember me that way,” I say before realizing that I probably said too much. Damn. And there she goes off, writing furiously on her notepad.

“Do you think you could forgive the man who did this to you?” she asks after a pause.

“Who do I look like? Jesus? I don’t have that much forgiveness to spread around,” I snap before really meaning to. And again, she scribbles down more notes. Probably something about me being unstable and needing to be institutionalized. But come on, what kind of question is that? This guy tortured me with what he knew was my worst fear. I’m sorry but an eye for an eye works better for me.

“How do you feel about the trial coming up?” she asks after finishing writing, giving me her attention once more.

I shift slightly in my seat, starting to feel really uncomfortable. This isn’t stuff I would just talk about with my friends. “Nervous. I don’t want to have to face him again,” I finally say in nothing short of a mumble, hoping that maybe she would not hear me.

“I see. And why do you not want to face him again? He can’t hurt you any more,” she continues, still looking at me intently.

Well who would want to? This guy is a creep. He had stolen my toothbrush and was tapping on my window at night. I’m nothing special enough to really be stalked so he must be really deranged. Not to mention the fact that I have nightmares constantly about him. It’s like, I know very well that he can never hurt me again but that doesn’t really help the fact that he already has. Shrugging, I don’t reply, letting the room fall silent for several minutes. She seems to think that I’m taking my time to think up an answer but really, I don’t feel like talking much anymore. Talking about all this isn’t going to make it any better when I’m trying to keep my mind off it.

[Elizabeth Johnson]

Dear journal,

I really don’t feel much better. I dunno how I can write a whole page about how crap I feel right now. It might start sounding emo or something. And that’s the last thing I really need right now. Not that anyone is going to read this and care. I’ve decided that since I’m kind of trying not to worry Dashiell about how horrible I’m doing that I really don’t want anyone to read this. Imagine if my mum got ahold of this. She would go insane. I can tell she’s already pulling out hair trying to keep from asking me about meetings with the stupid therapist. Who really doesn’t know what she’s doing. Just look…


I sit down in the same chair as last time, looking around the familiar office. The therapist takes up the other armchair and smiles politely at me. “So, how are you doing today?” she asks and I can’t quite tell if that’s an invitation to start talking about anything or just small talk. So I shrug and don’t bother with really giving an answer. I have to get this over with as soon as possible so I can get home and make some sort of dent in that pile of homework.

“I hear you’re going back to school now. How is that going?” she asks after a moment, realising I’m not really up to starting the conversation.

“Horrible. I have a lot of make up work to do,” I say lightly.

“I see. Though aren’t the teachers understanding about what happened? I’m sure you have plenty of time to finish everything,” she says. Her patience is killing me.

“Yeah. Everyone knows what happened,” I say and she starts writing on her notepad. Oops. I must have said something interesting or revealing. I really don’t know why I’m so opposed to therapy. It’s supposed to be helping right? It just feels like the easy way out though, like that prescription she gave me that I haven’t really been taking. Maybe that’s why I had a panic attack.

“And how do you feel about people knowing what happened to you?” she finally asks.

I feel like they’re all pointing and laughing about how stupid I am, or that they’re pitying me and my situation. I feel like they don’t know the whole story, just a few facts and are twisting the rest to make it sound even worse. I feel like just another distant ‘it’ll never happen to me’ story. “I don’t really like it much. Maybe it’s okay for the teachers to know. But they kept staring at me because I’ve missed so much school,” I finally say. She’ll figure out the rest.

“Have you been taking the medication I gave you? That should help anxiety,” she says while writing down more notes.

I don’t say anything which is probably answer enough for her since she adds, “You need to take those. They’ll help you do better with coping.” Though I’m kind of hesitant to take some sort of chemical that’s supposed to affect the way I act, which is something she should realize. It’s then that I start to wonder if she even knows the whole story of what he did to me while I was kidnapped.

“I don’t really feel comfortable with taking a drug that’s supposed to make me feel better,” I say loftily, putting special emphasis on the last two words.

“And why is that? Surely you want to feel better?” she asks. Her constant questioning reminds me of a child who asks why all the time. Or maybe a parrot. Or a broken record.

I stare moodily at the floor, not answering. Horrible memories flash before my eyes, making me feel like crying. I’m too tired to deal with this, to keep acting all strong like I used to be. This stupid woman has no idea what I had to face, my biggest fear. And then she asks me to take a constant reminder of it. I don’t want to take a pill to make me feel better. I want to be better. She spots the tears coming to my eyes and moves the florally patterned tissue box on the table closer to me. So there I am, dabbing at my eyes with an overly expensive tissue, still trying to refuse to be cooperative with some sort of dignity. It isn’t working too well.

[Elizabeth Johnson]

Dear Journal,

I’ve skipped writing in here about a session but it wasn’t that productive anyway. That was last week. Anyway. This week has been decent I guess. I went to school one day to collect some more homework and turn some other things in. It was insane. Some people actually dared to ask me why I’ve been out so much. And I completely froze up, standing there stupidly like a fish out of water. I cannot wait until this hell is over. I want to be the way I was again. So here’s the recount of what happened yesterday…


I sit down in my usual chair and scoot around a bit to get comfortable. Feels like someone else has been sitting in my chair. Hah. I have to amuse myself somehow. The therapist sits down in her chair that’s turned towards me, joy of all joys. Probably so she can study my face and tell if I’m lying. What do I have to gain from lying to her anyway? Then again, I figure any day now they’re going to send me off to a locked ward and padded cell the way things are going.

“How was your weekend?” she stars off politely, amazingly getting onto a good subject on the first try.

“Very good actually. My boyfriend took me to Paris for the weekend. It was nice,” I say. I mean, come on, I can’t help but brag. I doubt her significant other has taken her to Paris just to tell her he loves her. But then I start to wonder if she even has a significant other and I resist the temptation to check if there’s a wedding band on her finger. What if she was like my mum? Has a husband who’s a doctor and several kids she’s not close to at all, completely ignorant and looking at her perfect family with rose colored glasses. And if she is like my mum, I start to feel really sorry for her and consider warning her about what happened to my mum, the clinical psychiatrist who can’t handle her own personal relationships.

“That sounds very nice. You have a very understanding boyfriend,” she comments with a slight smile, making a few notes on her notepad. It seems like she’s making less of those as the sessions go on. Maybe she’s got me all figured out and predicted what I’m going to say next. Damn. I’ll have to keep her on her toes.

“Yeah. I know,” I said, not really sure what else to add. I don’t exactly feel comfortable with sharing all the details and it’s not like I can explain what Dashiell is because more than likely I’d be sent off for thinking there’s magical people in the world. “I didn’t have any nightmares over the weekend though,” I finally come up with, thinking that she’ll definitely like that one.

And she does. The therapist does not hesitate to look at me interestedly and jot another note on her paper. “Really? Any theories on why?” she asks.

“I dunno. Aren’t you supposed to know why my mind does things?” I ask a bit smartly. I really can’t resist making rude comments like this. It makes me feel more like myself.

“You know what I think? I think that weekend away from all the stress, spending time with someone special is what made the difference. It gave your mind a chance to let down it’s guard and stop reminding you of what happened,” she says with a slight shrug, as though she doesn’t really know and this is just a guess. But it makes sense to me and is pretty much the brilliant conclusion I came up with when the nightmares came back after I dreaded coming home. “I take it the nightmares haven’t gone away for good, have they. So perhaps if you try to relaxing in your room before you go to sleep at night. Become comfortable again and think of something that makes you feel safe. I want you to try that. Breathe deeply, concentrate on that thing that makes you feel safe, right before you go to bed at night. Okay?” she continues.

I nod slowly, rather surprised that I was actually given some sort of instruction like this. I’m sitting here expecting her to tell me to keep taking the medication or even prescribe me another pill. By the way, I totally have been keeping up on taking my anti anxiety stuff. Anyway. She goes and tells me to think of something that will keep me safe. And of course my thoughts automatically turn to Dashiell and how many times he reassured me that he would never again let anyone hurt me. What a novel concept. “Yeah, alright,” I say, incase she does not trust me to just nod in affirmation.

“Wonderful. Is there anything else you’d like to talk about? Anything really bothering you?” she asks, making notes again before looking up at me.

I shrug and say, “I dunno. I mean, just trouble with friends and stuff like that.”

“What sort of things?”

I don’t like talking about my problems too much. I mean, I know that this whole talking about my feelings is supposed to be helping me get over my ordeal but everyday stress isn’t a part of that and I just feel whiney if I go and bitch about all of that too. “School is horrible. A friend of mine just found out he’s a father so we have to help him out. I think our band is completely falling apart. My boyfriend is stressed out with his eating disorder. And now all of a sudden my sister is starting to get the idea I’m a great role model. Have I mentioned I’m a complete mess too?” I say, my voice going from monotone to increasingly more sarcastic.

The therapist nods understandingly, my sarcasm bouncing right off her shield of patience once again. “Being a teenager isn’t easy. Why do some of these things bother you so much? Like your sister looking up to you?”

“Because I know I can’t set a good example for her. Especially not now. She’s thirteen and very impressionable. She needs someone like my older sister who’s all put together and smarter than I am,” I say somewhat sadly. I mean, I suppose I’m a better example for Maryssa than Charlotte was but Alexandria is definitely the good girl out of all of us sisters. I’m the weird one and always have been. It’s never bothered me before.

“I thinks she admires your strength after all you’ve been through and your uniqueness. Younger adolescents are always trying to find their identity and part of that is finding someone to identify with. She probably wants to be unique like you.”

Then why don’t you have her in here and shrink her instead? I don’t bother saying it though. My rude comments never get through, never earn the right response. I don’t feel unique though. I feel like another statistic of another stupid girl who thought she could handle things herself but ran into a trouble and even had a brush with death. Maybe I’m the only girl in the neighborhood who’s been kidnapped but this is London. One can only guess what the crime rate is. I’m officially in those numbers now. Great. And now this lady is telling me I’m unique.

[Elizabeth Johnson]

Dear journal,

So, I haven’t been quite as good about keeping up with this whole thing but I’ll just make this entry a real long one. Not that you care. I mean, who’s going to read this, right? Not that I care either way. So, yeah, the latest news. Olivia’s birthday is coming up and I am scrambling to find a good present. But our band is going to play so that’ll be good. And the most awesome thing happened for our band. My sister is getting married and her fiancé is a music producer. So I gave him our demo and he said he’s going to look into it. It’s really awesome that things are happening for us.

But squealing about that sort of thing is not the point of this journal. So I’ll get down to business and talk about the last session with my therapist. Woo hoo.



I take my normal spot in my chair, idly picking at my fingernails. I really need to repaint them; the orange polish is chipping off. The therapist walks over and sits down with a friendly smile. Sometimes it kind of amuses me how she seems to think that just because I have to spill all sorts of secrets to her, we are best friends now or something.

“How are you doing today, Zee?” she begins, leaning back in her chair and studying me.

“I’m fine,” I say, not bothering to be polite and return the question. I suppose that’s the good thing about therapy. You can have a conversation totally about yourself and not sound conceited. And just because I know she’ll probably ask about, I decide to make her job a little easier. “The trial was last week.”

She nods slowly and says, “I heard he got seven years. Do you think that’s a just sentence after what he did to you?”

I shrug. Of course, I wanted him put away forever so I would never have to worry about him ever again. But now there’s the possibility that I might run into him again when I’m about twenty five. I just hope to God that Dashiell is still around with his promise to keep me safe.

“Do you feel a bit of closure now that the trial is over?” she asks, obviously getting the idea that I’m not really up to answering that last one. Or maybe she just understands that I’m really not feeling that forgiving yet.

“I guess. I mean, they made me explain everything that happened. It was so hard. The other lawyer made me look like a stupid, whiney brat. And then there was my mum and my boyfriend in the room too so they heard the whole thing. It was nothing short of horrible,” I say, realizing that it gets easier and easier for her to get these long strings of confessions about my feelings out of me lately. “I had nightmares again that night but they’ve gone away for the most part. Well, they’ve gotten less intense I guess. Fuzzier.”

“That’s good to hear your nightmares are going away,” she says although the look on her face doesn’t entirely reflect this, as though she’s actually concerned about it. But I shrug it off anyway. “Tell me, what else is going on in your life right now?” she asks.

“My sister is getting married. She brought home her fiancé for us to meet. But the really cool part about it is that he’s a music producer and he’s agreed to help out my band,” I say with a slight smile. Hey, maybe the therapist will want my autograph now before I’m famous, so she can say she knew me back then.

“That’s nice to hear. Music can be a very healthy outlet for stress,” she comments. And I am immensely thankful she does not act like my mum or every other adult who says that our garage band won’t make it. Then again, she could very well be thinking it and just deciding not to crush my hopes and dreams just yet.

“It’s what I’ve always wanted. I love music. It would be horrible if I didn’t have the band anymore,” I say honestly, trying to get her to really understand what I mean. But I guess there are just some things you can’t explain to therapist. And I really do mean I love music. Not just the whole glory of being a rock star and being famous. I’ve studied music in school after all and if I were to go to University, I would probably want to further my studies there. Of course, being a performer is probably the only place I could really take it but at least I know my stuff. But it’s back to the whole statistic thing I think. I’m already one because of being victim of a kidnapping but I don’t want to be in the numbers of failed bands out there who really were good and just needed a chance to get their feet off the ground. We deserve this opportunity.

“I’m sure it would be,” she says with another nod, scribbling some things down on her notes. I idly wonder if I said something interesting, like I always do when I cat her writing something on her clipboard. We fall silent for a while and I suddenly wonder if maybe this means I’m getting better. Like, I don’t need therapy anymore. It seems like a strange idea to me but if we’re running out of things to talk about already, then maybe the rest of the hour will be pointless. I have been feeling more like myself lately. Sure, it will always be something I struggle with, especially the whole knock to my confidence thing, but maybe there really was a sense of closure from the trial that’s really helped, I think.

But she must have noticed this thought on my face or something because she says, “How are things with your boyfriend?” She’s good. She knows the best subject to get me talking. It’s almost sad.

“Good. We’re doing good,” I answer. Of course, there are a few things we’re working through right now but this is my therapist, not a relationship counselor. I squirm in my seat. What if she could give good advice though, like, better than just asking my sister or best friend? I could probably get most of the same advice from my mum but I would never, ever go to her. Especially with what she’s found out about me and Dashiell.

“Is there something bothering you?” she asks, concerned, obviously noticing my squirming.

“Well … the thing is, it’s a long story so bear with me. Anyway. I have this friend, a guy friend, who I met online a while ago and we talk a lot and we’re good friends. Anyway, by some horrible coincidence, he met Dashiell. And now Dashiell is all worried about me talking to an older guy in university already. I had no idea what to say to him. Sorry for having friends? But that’s not all. Dashiell and I were watching Ben’s daughter because he was out and it was totally awkward. Any talk about babies or future or anything he just freaks out. It like he doesn’t seem to remember the fact that I’m only seventeen and am not interested in having a kid right now. I mean, that should make it okay to joke about it, right?” By now I am standing up and pacing the room in the middle of my monologue. “He’s so … conceited sometimes though. I mean, I love him so much and wouldn’t trade anything for him and I know he loves me too but we’re seven months now. I don’t know why but I’ve been feeling just … unappreciated lately. Like, he knows I’m a sucker for anything even remotely romantic so why can’t he take me out on an actual date? Like, candlelit dinner and roses and everything? Its fun to go to parties or clubs and stuff like that but I’d like one time to not come home drunk. Or maybe just send me flowers every now and then? Or maybe pick out my Christmas present not because he has to get me something just because he’s my boyfriend. Is it so much to ask for a little thoughtfulness? Hell, I’d give an arm for a compliment that wasn’t about how hot I am. And I don’t want to have to tell him because I want it to be a surprise and I don’t need to sound like a bitchy, self centered girlfriend.” I stop here, finally noticing I am on my feet. “I think … this is the most I’ve ever told you in one go …” I comment vaguely before slowly sinking back into my chair, feeling my face turn pink from either embarrassment or frustration. Or maybe both. “I sound like a horrible girlfriend, don’t I,” I add, looking down at my hands now.

“Zee, if everyone had a perfect relationship, I wouldn’t have a job,” says the therapist and I look up at her with a raised eyebrow. “It’s very normal for you to have these sorts of troubles. A part of growing up is learning how to deal with them. I think Dashiell has a bit of a commitment problem-“

“You think?” I mutter sarcastically. I mean, come on. What kind of excuse is that anyway?

“- But seven months is doing really well for two seventeen year olds. It's not easy for him to come up with these things, I'm sure. And there is nothing wrong with expecting a little more since the two of you are in a mature, adult sort of relationship. But you only get as much as you put in,” she says, ignoring my sarcasm.

This really doesn’t seem right to me though because it feels like I do so much for him already. What more does he want from me? Am I just supposed to drop a major hint that I’m not feeling very appreciated? He knows me so well he should have figured this out already. It’s nothing to break up over, of course, because I only want the thoughtfulness from him. I mean, I could probably find another guy who actually takes this hint but it wouldn’t make any difference. I would still be unhappy because it wasn’t Dashiell. “But how do I tell him that without, like, telling him?” I ask, wanting an actual answer instead of all this ‘it’s all a part of growing up’ crap that adults just love to tell you when you’re struggling.

“Show him. Do some little thoughtful things for him. He’ll want to return the favor,” she suggests. And oddly, that idea seems to make sense. Of course, I was hoping for a quick an easy fix, like maybe leaving my journal somewhere for him to read this page but this isn’t so bad at all. It’s not like it’s hard for me to come up with these sorts of things. I have plenty of ideas already of cute little things to do for him.

“Okay, thanks,” I mutter, still feeling somewhat embarrassed about my huge rant. Though I’m glad I said it. I look around the room, desperately trying to change the subject. “So, I’m thinking about going back to school after Christmas holidays are up…”

[Elizabeth Johnson]

Dear Journal,

There’s too much to bother reporting. Not like anyone is going to care, right? No one is reading this after all. I look back on my past entries though and I feel kind of stupid. I’ve kind of skipped a few times of writing in this thing but I suppose today is rather important.


Still rather worked up about earlier at Dashiell’s apartment, I sit down in my normal chair across from the therapist. I’m debating in my mind about whether I should tell her about what I saw or not. I don’t want to get that look again. That look of sympathy because I don’t seem to realize how crazy I am.

“How are you today, Zee?” she asks pleasantly. It seems like she starts every session like that. Then again, I suppose that’s the most general to get someone to start talking.

“Fine,” I mutter. I feel like being a little bit moody and uncooperative today.

“I hear you’re going back to school now,” she says, looking at me somewhat expectantly. As if I have something more to say on that rumor. Whatever.

“Yeah,” I say uninterestedly.

“And how is that going so far? You’re not having panic attacks?”

“It’s fine. No panic attacks.”

She sits there for a moment, looking at me curiously. I stare back blankly.

“What’s bothering you?” she asks, actually sounding a bit concerned now. I’m mildly surprised. Maybe I’m regressing and I need this concerned tone again. Great. “Is it your parents? Your siblings? Your friends? You know I’m here to help, Zee.”

I know she’s going to think I’m crazy. But what can I do? I have to tell her. Maybe she can help. “I … I saw him. A few days ago when I was out shopping. And I know he’s supposed to be in prison. But I know it was him. He was standing there smirking at me. Like he knew that he was completely defying any fact that he was in jail,” I finally say in a somewhat hushed tone.

“Your kidnapper? Out in the middle of London?” she says sharply, scribbling a few things on her notepad. “Have you seen him other times before, after he was already in prison?” she asks and I look up at her quickly. How did she know?

“Yes. I saw him on Christmas Eve too. Right outside my house,” I say, hardly daring to believe it. Does she believe me? “But we called the station. They checked on him. He was still there. Well, at least he was last weekend.” I scoot forward slightly on my seat eagerly looking at her, trying to find out if I’m crazy or not.

“And you are very sure it was him?” she asks. I deflate a little. But I have to convince her that it was true.

“Yes. He looked right at me!” I say eagerly.

All the therapist does is nod and continue writing. I sink back into my chair defeatedly, staring up at the ceiling.

“I’m not crazy and I’m not imagining it,” I say firmly. “And I didn’t confuse him with someone else. It was him. I don’t know how he’s in two places at once but I know it was him.” Maybe he was magic and could transport himself from place to place in the blink of an eye like she had seen Dashiell do. But that idea didn’t seem to work because then they wouldn’t have just left it to her kind’s law enforcement to deal with, right? This was so confusing.

“I’m sure that you thought you saw him,” she says, finally looking up at me searchingly. “Zee, have you been feeling moody lately?”

I’m a bit taken aback at this change of subject. But I quickly regain my footing and reply snappishly, “Of course I am. It’s that time of the month.” I’m always moody. I always have been. Probably because of the pills I’m on or something.

“I mean, in the past month or two. Maybe get into disagreements that now seem pointless?” she clarifies.

“No, I ….” I trail off, guiltily thinking of that fight with Dashiell over holidays. That could have been completely avoided if I had a bit of sense. But it didn’t matter now because we’re over it and our relationship is doing fine. And then there was all those fights with mum that I picked, pretty much just because. That was all I normally got from her lately with Alexandria bringing home a fiancé; I had been pushed off the pedestal of importance. I don’t even bother to think of all the times I had snapped at Maryssa for no reason at all except crankiness. But what difference did that make anyway? “So? I do that all the time.”

But the therapist does not answer me. “How about your nightmares? Have they gone away?” she asks instead.

Thanks for answering my question with a question. “Mostly. I mean, I still have them every now and then. But it’s all mostly fine,” I say, thinking about the very few times I had actually taken Dashiell up on his offer to call him in the middle of the night after a bad dream.

“I see. Well, Zee, I’m going to prescribe you another medicine. Keep taking the anti anxiety pills along with this one. It should help,” she says, now standing up and walking over to her desk to get a piece of paper to write a prescription on. “Take one everyday and let me know if you see him again outside,” she says, walking back over and scribbling something in doctor scrawl on it before handing me the slip of paper.

This is it? The answer to my problems is another medication? I look at her somewhat helplessly. This can’t be right. I know something is really wrong. The therapist does not quite meet my eye.

[Elizabeth Johnson]

(compilation of lyrics @ Flyleaf and Switchfoot)

[Elizabeth Johnson]

Dear journal,

I think this is going to end up being my last entry for a while. Until I can force myself to start writing again I guess. What else is there to say though? It's all over now. I even had my very last meeting with my therapist. Mum talks about filing a lawsuit against her for not noticing that I was really being stalkd but really, I don't care. I know I can take care of myself now and that I'm not crazy. I guess that's what matters really. Anyway, here it is, my last session:


I'm unable to keep the slightly triumphant smirk off my face as I sit down across from the therapist. She does not seem to have the manners to look properly ashamed at misdiagnosing me though. After the shock had all worn off, I really wanted to tell a few people who didn't believe me 'I told you so.' But for now I hold back as we sit in silence.

"Well, Zee, you've definately had a busy weekend, I hear," she says after a few minutes of silence.

"Yes, not every day you get to fight of someone trying to abduct and murder you," I say before I can help myself. My hand had been well bruised by how hard I had hit him but it was feeling better now. Good thing too since I can't play drums with a bad hand.

"Yours was definately a special case," she says with a nod. That's it? That's her only acknowledgement that she was totally and completely wrong? She's like my mum, has too much pride to admit she's wrong about something that she thinks she knows everything about. Then I realise that I'm kind of like that too. I hate apologising and being wrong. Maybe I should be a shrink too.

"Yes, it was," I say, nodding in agreement.

"Do you feel better now that it's over for sure?" she asks, giving me that searching, therpist-like look.

"I guess so," I say. Honestly, I'm not sure what to feel. Sure, I'm relieved that I don't have to be all paranoid all the time. But there's something odd about being stalked and kidnapped. "I'm not taking the medication anymore," I say, making sure that we're clear on that one.

"Fair enough. The anti-anxiety pills would not hurt you to take them but I wouldn't say you need them," the therapist concedes.

And that's it. I'll probaby never see her again. It's kind of sad really. She was a nice lady when she wasn't being all therapist-like. I'll wish her well and tell mum not to bother with the lawsuit. No harm was caused.


I guess while I'm writing, I should explain more about what happened. I was attacked while coming home from work one evening. No one saw him come up behind me and drag me into a dark alleyway. It was kind of dumb luck when a door opened and I was able to get a hit in. But it was weird at the police station...


I finish talking to Dashiell on the phone then follow the officer into a room with a dark window on the side and a plain table. Shivering, I sit down in the indicated chair, feeling slightly apprehensive about this.

"Would you like a cup of coffee, dear?" the female officer asks kindly and I nod. She leaves the room.

"Would you like to tell us all what happened or write it down?" the other officer asks. I'm sure they're not trying to act all intimidating and I try to remind myself that I'm completely innocent here. My hand is throbbing painfully so I elect to just tell it.

"Where should I start?" I ask. It really is a long story, beginning last fall. But I think the officer recognises me from the last time so maybe he won't make me relieve all of that too.

"Just what happened tonight. I have the file from your case. I'm assuming we'll have to add to it tonight," he says gently, sitting in the chair opposite me. The other officer returns with the coffee and I take ahold of it appreciatively, my cold fingers happy to hold the warm paper cup.

"Well, he grabbed me from behind and pulled me into the alley. He had his arm around my neck so I couldn't talk," I begin. Now I think about it, my voice does sound a bit raspy still. I take a drink of the coffee, not caring about how it tastes like really cheap stuff. "And he said he was going to kill me to get revenge on his brother and that making me look crazy was part of the plan so no one would believe me," I continue, carefully trying to keep every detail in mind.

"Our sources told us that Antoine Buchanans's brother, Oliver Buchanan, has been in Asia, traveling. There is no record of him coming here in the past year. He's known to be wanted for several charges," says the officer, refering the report in front of him.

"Well, guess he made an exception. At least now you guys have him," I say, feeling somewhat like they were happier about capturing some known bad guy than the guy who had almost killed me.

"Yes, all thanks to you. Anyway, please continue with the story," he says, making a few notes.

"He threw me against the wall and then a door to one of the buildings opened and there was someone in the doorway. So I just sort of took the opportunity and hit him. And that was it really," I finish kind of lamely. I'm feeling a bit surprised that he had been so sloppy, allowing me to get away with that.

"Well, don't worry, Zee. We'll make sure him or his brother never come near you again," says the officer reassuringly, finishing up writing the notes he had been taking while I was talking. I nod and finish my coffee, feeling very tired now. Maybe I'll skip school tomorrow and just catch up on sleep.