A Therapeutic Chain of Events

"This is the scent of dead skin on a linoleum floor
This is the scent of quarantine wings in a hospital
It's not so pleasant
And it's not so conventional
It sure as hell ain't normal
But we deal, we deal

The anesthetic never set in and I'm wondering where
The apathy and urgency is that I thought I phoned in
It's not so pleasant
And it's not so conventional
It sure as hell ain't normal
But we deal, we deal"
Panic at the Disco, Camisado

April 19th, 2003
I'm feeling a little better today. Dr. Thrace gave me something to help me sleep, and sometimes sleeping during the day is better. I have an interview tomorrow at the LA County Hospital. If all goes well then soon I'll be... mopping vomit and changing bedpans? Somehow I'd convinced myself this was a step up.
I'm not sure why I picked the hospital, I could have gotten a job at McDonald's much more easily. I just, I dunno. I want to be near people who need help. I want to be able to help those people, too. That last part is probably the more important part. Before Mom died I had a plan; I was going to graduate then kick ass in UCLA's pre-med program and become a slightly older and much hotter Doogie Howser. Then I was going to meet the love of my life on the job, have a whirlwind romance, get married and have like, eight babies. I'd open my own practice and work on the schedule I wanted, balancing a family and my career. I was going to help people, and medicine - that was the way I was going to do it.
Then medicine stopped working. Mom died and I got angry. I didn't want to help people anymore. I wanted someone to pay. I wanted somewhere where I could channel all that rage and be held only loosely accountable for it. I wanted somewhere where, as long as I was aiming at the right people, I'd get to keep shooting. Or punching. Or screaming. Anything besides just sitting around and hearing "Oh, Laurel, honey. I'm so sorry. How are you?" I'm tired. I'm lost. That's how I am. That's what I would think, and the thinking was getting old.
College acceptance letters in hand, I left the house my mom had left me. I put the letters in the trash, and went to my graduation ceremony, alone. Mom was an only child, and whothehell knows where my dead dad's family was. Couldn't be bothered with me, that was for sure.
After the ceremony was over, when most kids were going to their grad parties and various benders, I went to the enlistment office near Huntington Park. I wanted to get out of the city that day, but it took a little longer. I thought I was making a new start, finding some order and maybe getting the chance to work through something without seriously damaging myself. Just other people.
Judging from my "mild psychotic break" (as Dr. Thrace subtly refers to it), that strategy was clearly a success.

Somewhat Damaged

April 10th, 2003
Doctor Thrace thinks this will help.

I've been having nightmares. Still. It's been months, but every time I sleep it's the same...
I hear the door splinter and give. I hear shouts in languages I don't even recognize. Then those men line the kids up against the kitchen window.
There are gunshots and screams and that sick pounding and more gunshots and the strike of a match and the crackling and cracking and then, finally, whimpering. The last is me, I think.
I'm staring at the wall and everything, everywhere hurts. I think some of this blood is mine.



Shit, I can't do this.

"Broken, bruised, forgotten, sore
Too fucked up to care anymore
Poisoned to my rotten core
Too fucked up to care anymore..."
Nine Inch Nails, Somewhat Damaged