Of course, my mind plays games with me.

"I've made my friends mad at me with all my e-mails to them. They're going to get mad if I tell them I'm suicidal. They'll get mad if I run away. They don't care. They don't understand. I have to hide how I'm feeling from them."

"I'm going to get yelled at, hit or raped by anyone who gets too close to me." "Richard the Creep is going to hurt, rape or kill me." "I've killed the cat."

"I've brought all this on myself. This pain business is my fault. It's God's payback for the psychiatric institute. I could have done something to prevent this."

"Any doctor who touches me is going to make a similiar mistake and leave me screaming in agony. I'm going to die in a nursing home."

"I'm a freak. I've driven away every friend I ever had and ever will have."

"I scare people away with my writing. I freak them out. That's why they don't write back."

"I'm going to die in pain. I'm going to die soon, during my next operation."

"I'm going to die friendless and alone. Doug and Father Lindsay are going to abandon me."

"People are going to think less of me if I start screaming or crying."

"I'm a failure in life."

"I'm an ugly person. My wheelchair makes me ugly."

"Only a sick pervert would want to have a close relationship with me."

I don't think I need to go on. And I actually believe all this. So now you know the wasteland I live in. You know it's not a game.

There is a thing more crippling than cerebral palsy: the prison of your own mind.