Mum finally dragged me to therapy again so they could tell me that yes, I am going medically crazy. They're saying they need to do more tests but they think I'm experiencing delusions from grief and denial or something. I don't know if that's even possible. Jess would know. She was the scientific one. They kept asking me if I was taking my medication and I think they want me to start taking something else, treating me like some kind of stupid kid who didn't understand anything.

Therapy was horrible. I felt like I was being scrutinised the whole time, like I was being watched like some kind of possibly-dangerous but mostly insignificant thing shoved under a microscope. They wanted to talk about Jess but I steered them more towards my home life. I'm sure there's a bunch of stupid Freudian nonsense they can spin from all that.

I'm going to go back to the Brightleys'. There's got to be something I missed, and it's better than sitting around petulantly complaining to random strangers on the internet. I'd better do it now while I'm still irritated; it's sort of motivating.