Dear Reader(s),
Before ten months ago, I didn’t know that the coil spring from a mattress could be used as a makeshift weapon, or that the rod inside a toilet tank worked just as well as the claw of a hammer.
Before ten months ago, I never imagined that the sense of smell could be so keen—that the scent of my breath, like rotten fruit, could wake me out of a sound sleep, or that cooked rice carries a distinct aroma, like popcorn kernels heating.
Before.
Ten months.
Ago.
I’d never considered the power of light—that when one is deprived of it, illogical thoughts can gnaw like rats at the brain, keeping one up, driving one mad.
Nor had I any reason to predict how intimately I’d come to know myself: the oily stench of my own hair, the salty taste of my own blood, and the touch of my unbathed body (the scaly layer of scabbing that would form all over my skin, and the fire-ant sensation that would crawl up and down my limbs).
For the purpose of this memoir, you can call me Jane Anonymous. For the purpose of my sanity, I’ve chosen to do this in secret. Accordingly, all of the names in here, for both people and places, are fake. I want to tell my full story, and I can’t possibly do that if I’m paranoid about being identified. And while I’m on the topic of story, until now, I’ve never attempted to write my own. People have asked. Film agents and publishers have tried to lure me with six-figure deals in exchange for a full account of what happened during my seven months away. I’ve told them all to go to hell. I need to do this my way, on my terms.
Maybe that makes me sound like a bitch.
But ask me if I care.
A year ago, at this time, I’d have sung an entirely different tune. Back then, I worried what people thought and trusted in the goodwill of others.
But now I’m a girl who sleeps in her closet with a knife tucked beneath her pillow, trusting no one but herself.
Everyone says that I should try therapy. But therapists have their own agendas, the least of which is to help me heal. They want to get inside my head, make me their prize-winning case study, sell the inside scoop to some gossip rag—to buy braces and prep schools for their kids. Did I mention that I’m paranoid too? (Yes, I think I did.) Anyway, I’m no one’s paycheck. I’ll get it all out here instead. And then, one day, who knows. Maybe my words will somehow help save some poor soul from making the same mistakes I did.
Yours truly,
Jane Anonymous