Being five is fun.

I sleep with a stuffed animal.

His name is Bear.

This is because he is a fluffy white bear.

If I wake up and he’s not in my arms I panic.

I cry myself to sleep a lot.

I used to cry once a year.

I don’t have to make myself cry anymore.

It just happens.

I don’t know how to make it stop.

I am afraid of the dark.

It takes me to places I don’t want to go.

I get scared when it’s time for bed.

I make my three-legged dog sleep with me.

He snores and he farts.

But I sleep better with him there.

He is good at cuddling.

It’s probably his only talent.

So basically I AM A 5 YEAR OLD GIRL.

And I just reread this and realized how sad it sounds. It is not meant to be sad. In fact, I find it quite funny. All these things started to happen when I turned 19. That’s not normal, if you were wondering. And no, I don’t pee the bed, but sometimes I wake up and I’m in a puddle of liquid. And no, it’s not my period either—it’s my feeding tube and it leaks. It’s disgusting.

My dad keeps telling me I’m mentally unstable. My mom keeps telling me I’m the strongest girl she knows. But I stopped listening to my parents awhile ago so it doesn’t matter. There’s no downside and there’s not upside. I’m just focusing on existing.

And I have to go to these doctors and they stick needles in my stomach and I feel like a voodoo doll and I try not to scream-squel-squeak out in pain but sometimes it hurts really bad. It makes my scarred tummy all purple and puffy. And people keep asking about my EXPECTATIONS for life. But I have no expectations. I must have misplaced them somewhere.

Also, I farted during family prayer yesterday.

And I’m not happy but I’m funny.