9:04 a.m. - May 11, 2004
Last night in therapy one therapist said You have PTSD and I stared him down, said I reject those labels and victimization to which he replied, I don't give a damn what you think about labels. Been thinking about that since I woke up.
Talked about suicide and I was quick to point out I have no plan, just stray thoughts that creep in like fog: Gently rolls in, stays awhile, goes away soon enough.
Then I dreamed of Spec stealing my car keys and laughing as he punched me because I didn't fight back. I never did; I turned everything off and sat there like a rock until it was over and he would start to cry and I would comfort him for driving him to hit me. There's something fucked up about that. This is my angry-at-Spec poem:
Later: Why bother.