Today we were given notes along with paper to write on during compulsory writing therapy. It is supposed to contribute to our healing and to help us manage-out our deviant behavior, thoughts, emotions, and appearances. The most that I can say about it is that I respect the attempt and I despise them for their intention and illusory explanations.

I tried to remember words and conversations that were said to me in passing before I was brought to this place......and I couldn't. I couldn't remember the gestures and implications even though I felt all of them intensely, deep in the essence of my being.

Scattered notes reflected pieces of her mind. Money property- Property money war- always wanting more. It wasn't that simple. Would I be able to recognize myself if I continued writing for them? At the end of compulsory writing therapy all of the writings that we compose are collected, scrutinized and disappeared sometimes along with the author. We are constantly reminded that it is for the benefit of our healing process, but today, it bothered me more than usual. We all knew why the therapists searched her room making sure that everyone paid attention to what they were doing. Their invasive search ended when one of the therapist found her notes and scattered them on the floor. A few weeks ago, before we had compulsory writing therapy the woman whose notes were scattered told me that in order to comprehend how reality was created I had to know the stories. I had to learn how they were told and how they are alive and changing. She told me that I had to remember the stories and the power and medicine of the storyteller in order to remember her name and only then.... I would come to understand the truth about healing.