<div style="text-align: justify;">Emma felt strangely safe when Len put an arm around her. It made her feel cared for, though Emma was still a bit iffy about Len, as he had earlier been pretty harsh on her. <br/><br/>When he said he didn't mind, Emma nodded, relieved. "Thank you, I do", she replied to his comment on her needing to sort out her thoughts. After meeting Len, she definitely had a lot of thoughts to sort out and try to deal with.<br/><br/>As Len released her, Emma looked up at him, watching his every move. It was clear that she was a bit more relaxed, but still paying close attention to what he was doing.<br/><br/>"Thank you, I will do so", Emma replied, making a note of the woman's name just in case. She wanted to ask about his life, about where his biological parents were, but she decided not to. Not yet, at least. It wasn't her place to go around asking him questions, after all. He was the therapist, not her.<br/><br/>His words about being glad she was still alive, and her meaning more to people than she realized, really touched Emma's heart. It was so good to hear that, it even made her speechless, and all Emma managed to do was nod, her eyes lighting up.<br/><br/><div><hr style="height:2px; width:100%; border:0; color: white;background:white;"/></div><br/>As soon as Wen left her room, Emma opened up the journal and started writing. Since she was supposed to write it for him to read, she decided she would write it in the form of a letter, addressed directly to him. <br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic"><span style="color: #FFFF40">'I know you said I should use this as a journal, but since you will be reading it, I thought I would address it to you. Don't worry, I will write just as honestly as I would if I had been writing it as a journal. I hope you don't mind if I start by telling you about my life prior to coming here. I think you won't like me too much after I finish writing this, and you read it, but you need to know what there is to know about me if you will be able to help me - which I'm not really sure about, but I really hope you can.’</span></span><br/><br/>Emma stopped in the middle of her writing when she heard Len's shout, but decided not to say anything and pretend she had not heard him. She didn't want to draw his ire towards herself, after all. They had parted in such a positive note Emma wanted to keep things this way.<br/><br/><span style="color: #FFFF40"><span style="font-style: italic">'I think I should start from the beginning. I was born in Washington, D.C., to a city councilman and a housewife. I was their only child, either by choice or because my mother couldn't have another one after me, I don't really know. My parents never really talked to me about anything they considered not suitable for a child to know - which was a lot.<br/><br/>My parents were extremely religious, and very strict about me following all of the rules our church set for us. I had to be nice, obedient, and basically do as mom and dad, or the Pastor, told me. I didn't really mind that at a young age, as - I think you will noticed that - I have a naturally pleasing disposition. That is me, I guess, not something outside my personality.<br/><br/>Of course, my parents loved having such a meek and easy-going child. They were so busy all the time - father was rarely home, and mom would sometimes be busy helping him with something related to his careers - that the less they had to worry about me, the better. So, they didn't really question my behavior.<br/><br/>I guess I was the perfect child for them, and for a while, I didn't really suffer by being this way. My life started becoming harder as I became older and went to school. Naturally, my father picked a very traditional school, and there were lots of demands put on me regarding behavior and grades. I had to be a model student, after all.<br/><br/>Don't get me wrong, I love studying, but the demands put on me by the school and my parents made me extremely anxious. I liked some classes, like History, Literature and Arts, but some others, like Mathematics, were harder for me. I'm not good with numbers, I would say I am much better with words and pictures. But my parents didn't care. I had to be good in every subject, otherwise it would reflect badly on them. I think that was when the worst cases of anxiety started.<br/><br/>I started hearing that little voice. It said the things I already knew about myself. It told me that I wasn't adequate, that I wasn't as perfect as my parents were, as they would want me to be... From there, it just got worse and worse. Every time I did something wrong, every time I failed my parents, it told me horrible things. So I never did anything bad, I was always good and obedient.<br/><br/>As I became older, I started cutting myself. It was very easy, mom and dad were always gone doing something and I would be home with the staff, but they knew not to bother me whenever I was in my room. And since both school and my parents had a strict dress code, my arms were always covered, and I didn't have a boyfriend who could see me with less clothing - nobody ever did, with the exception of doctors.<br/><br/>Life was always miserable, but it became much, much worse when I turned 18. That was three months ago, before mom passed.<br/><br/>They started talking about marriage. Sure, it wasn't a traditional arranged marriage situation, but they would basically pick out some suitable young men, around my age, and introduce me to them, so I could choose. I felt like a piece of meat at the butcher's shop, but I still said yes. I couldn't say no to my parents at this point. And the voice told me nobody would ever love me for anything but money and power anyway, so I might as well do as I was told and not end my life a bitter spinster.<br/><br/>While I did say yes, I was terribly tormented about all of that. Mother was taking me here and there to shop for new clothes, new shoes, she wanted to get my hair cut a lot shorter, something I really didn't want... I was so fed up I just wanted her to go away. I never wished her death, I promise. I just wanted her to go somewhere for a while and leave me alone.<br/><br/>So, this last day, she was going grocery shopping, and I really didn't want to be with her. So, I excused myself and told her we would see each other later, and I would cook lunch for the family.<br/><br/>I never had the chance, of course. She was coming out of the store and moving to her car when some car came out of nowhere and hit her. The doctors said she died quickly, which I think was pretty merciful. I asked one of the doctors, and he said that, if she had survived, she would have had horrible effects from the accident, the least of which being the inability to walk. So, I thought that maybe it was something good that she had not made it.<br/><br/>The thought made me physically sick to my stomach. The voice was so angry. It kept telling me it was all my fault, that I had wished for her to go away, that I had killed her, and then I had been happy she was dead, and that I should have died too. But I could still do it. I could kill myself, and then I would have paid for my sin.<br/><br/>Then, I waited for mom's funeral - I owed her that much - and then, when we got home, I went quietly to the kitchen, took a knife and went into my room, where nobody would bother me. Then, I cut my wrists and waited for everything to end. I don't really know how dad found me, or if he was the one to find me at all. I remember he called our doctor - he didn't want the public attention of taking me to a hospital - and when I woke up, he was yelling at me, about how stupid I was, and about how I would ruin him, his career. Then I passed out again, and next time I woke up, we were on our way here.<br/><br/>And the voice is now saying I'm a pathetic loser for telling you about all that, and how I'm such a weak person to let a perfect life ruin me that badly. I'm sorry... I will share what it says, if you want me to. Maybe I should. I hope you don't think I'm pathetic.’</span></span><br/><br/>Once she had finished writing, Emma felt a little lighter. She hadn’t really spoken about their meeting or how he made her feel. Mostly because her wrist hurt by writing that much, and also because she wanted to know what he thought about her before moving forward. If he didn’t think she was terribly stupid and pathetic, then she could tell him more.<br/><br/>Closing the journal, Emma got on her knees and prayed. It was mostly a ritual by now, but she was used to it, and had a hard time not doing it by now. Maybe, she thought, one day she would be able to make her own decisions about that as well.<br/><br/>Once she was done, Emma washed her hands, brushed her teeth and got to bed. Her mind focused on Len for a moment or two, and she felt that she was actually looking forward to seeing him again.<br/><br/>Before she drifted off to sleep, Emma smiled softly again, her mind still thinking of this new person in her life.</div>