Dear Journal,
Writing is my only way to find peace. I have no one to talk to.
I remember in my health class there was brief discussion on human trafficking. I think that is happening to me. I’m not sure I want to believe it is happening to me. I still have hope for me and Mike. It’s stupid, but I want it to work. I need it to work. I need him to become the old Mike he once was.
In that health class it was discussed that people trafficked have sex against their will. What I am doing right now is not something I want to be doing. I’m coping with drug use, and I fear for my life. I am being forced into this. I also remember from this class, my teacher talking about the poor mental health state victims would be in from being trafficked. I never really have taken mental health seriously until now. I think I understand what it means to have anxiety, or PTSD, or something. As I write this now I am in a full panic. I’m so worried Mike will walk in and see me writing and hurt me. He hates when I write. He said it’s awful. He said if he caught me journaling again he would burn my journal and pens in front of me. So I’m consistently looking behind my shoulder. Unable to finish my thoughts because I’m constantly fearful. My heart is pounding every second. Most days I feel like this. My heart could explode at any minute.
When I’m not in a constant state of worry, I am either high or I want to die. I don’t even know who I am anymore. I wish there was someone I could tell how I’m feeling. But I’m so alone. I wish my stupid brain would help me remember the resources we talked about in that health class. I know there has to be an end to this.
-Jen
