My shrink is pulling my psychiatric records from the place where I spent 1 and a half years of my life and that I have spent the rest of my life trying to forget. He wants me to write a novel about the experience.

I hate the idea. Doug thinks it's a wonderful idea. He had the idea before the shrink did. The records are being pulled because I remember very little of the experience.

The shrink wants to turn it into a creative exercise. Doug wants lots of descriptions.

I have been secretly dreading this day for years, wondering what I'd do if the records were pulled.

All I know is this: if my shrink asks any questions that hit too close to home, I am out of there for good. If he asks me a question that makes me too uncomfortable, I am out of there before you can say "Sir Douglas."

In fact, I am not so sure I want to go back to him, even before I know if there are any records. I do know I don't want those records pulled. I don't even want to think of my time there. I don't want to think of my childhood or my teenage years. I want to forget I ever existed.

How do you describe Hell? A place that I was ashamed to call home. I could have avoided going there, I don't know how, maybe by being a better person.

If I was a rotten person then, it must mean that I am a rotten person now.