I got a letter from Bruce today. I've been living here in New York with Dick for more than two months, and this is the first I've heard from him. I don't know what he wants from me. I don't know what's his problem with me. Does he think I should have been able to do better? Does he blame me for letting the Joker get me ( Read more... )

I showed Dick yesterday's entry. I figured it would be a good ice-breaker, so we could talk... just not about the past. Everyone who talks to me nowadays wants to know about what happened. I can understand when it's my therapist. I can even understand when it's journalists -- they get paid to ask those kind of questions. And I know that other ( Read more... )

They decreased my dosage. Things don't seem so... bleak as they used to ( Read more... )

I hate how these pills mess with my head. I'm muddled and everything is dark, even in the daylight. Maybe I should talk to Dick about getting my medication changed.Living in New York isn't as terrible as I thought it would be. It's kind of like Gotham, and that's comforting (and when did the circus kid start caring about what city he was in?), ( Read more... )

Dick says I have to write something, everyday. "Just a paragraph," he says, "A couple sentences about how you feel today. It doesn't have to be about what happened to you. You don't have to think about it until you're ready."

He doesn't get it.

He means well, but he just doesn't get it. I can't help thinking about it. I can't help seeing all ( Read more... )

October 15th, 1999

It's been months since I've written anything. But all the doctors (especially Dr. Van Dyne, the one that I have to listen to) say that I should start again. Try to process my feelings.

I think it's a bunch of bullshit.

What do my feelings need processing for? And what the hell does that mean? I should think about what ( Read more... )