I found this journal in the bedroom of the house I just moved into.

The homeowners had taken some furniture with them, but not everything.

The kitchen is intact.

There are some books on a shelf in the living room.

I have seen a grey stray cat around the house.

The bedroom even still has a bed in it.

I understood immediately why they didn't take it.

It smells awful.

On it lay these pages.

The doctor said I should write down my thoughts.

I'm not sure how this is supposed to help me, but at this point I'm pretty much willing to give anything a try.

What makes it more difficult for me is that she didn't give clear instructions.

I've never done this before, like I've never had a diary before.

She said I could write down anything I wanted to, thoughts, feelings, memories, even poems, as if I would be one to write poems.

But she said, just to get started, try to get into it, that there's not really a wrong way to do this.

We'll see.

Not much else has helped yet, so I might as well.

I have enough time either way. I've been on sickly for work for weeks now. I doubt

they're put up with this for much longer and I hardly ever sleep through the night. Maybe I should include some context for future me, who might pick this up 20 years from now or so.

To be honest, right now, it's hard to imagine that there will be a future where I might even want to look back at this time.

But the doctor said it was important to keep a hopeful perspective.

Thank God do I want to try.

...