Entry — Age 16, after I found it

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I'm not going to write what it is. If someone finds this journal I'm not going to have written what it is.

I found something behind the skirting board. I know what it does. I put it back.

I've been lying on my bed for two hours looking at the ceiling trying to construct a version of events in which this has an innocent explanation, and I can't get there. I've tried. I'm good at finding charitable interpretations. Not this time.

The sessions. The pencil that wouldn't move. The gap between what I can do in here and what happens everywhere else. I thought that was me. I thought it was a failure in the mechanism, my mechanism, something broken.

I don't know what to do with the possibility that the room was broken, not me. I genuinely don't know what to do with that. I'm going to need some time.