Dr. Palmer would just love that shit. I imagined her pulling down her spectacles and asking me if I’d drawn in my journal this week while her face crinkled up with judgment. I snorted remembering when I showed her the flip book that I’d spent hours creating. If you turned the pages quickly it showed a tree falling over and crushing a family of chipmunks. Instead of applauding my impressive drawing skills, Dr. Palmer had asked me if I was trying to be institutionalized. I missed her energy.
