We are all sick, we School Kids, though our respective maladies differ vastly. Lucien apprised me of this when we spoke a few weeks ago. He asked if I were a drunk, or strung out on heroin. Was I neurotic or paranoid? Do I have nightmares or panic attacks? Am I dealing with it?

No. I am not dealing with it. Of the 5 stages of grief, I have only managed my way to #4: Depression. Meantime, Lucien and the rest are still struggling with those stages I've already passed through. They are in Denial, or they are Angry, or Bargaining. Some tiny part of me wishes at least one of us had transcended to the final, healthy phase, that of Acceptance. Somehow, though, my Depressed phase suits me for now, and I have no overwhelming urge to leave its comforting arms just yet.

But I am very sick. And I didn't tell Lucien just how so. Sure, I answered his questions. No, I'm not quite like the Kids with whom he reached the end of The Programme. I never expected that I would be; I got out sooner. Not that that means I'm any healthier than they are, mind you. Nor am I any less so. Just...different. I didn't make it all the way through The Programme, so I've not got the hang ups that go with that. Similarly, though, I was ripped out mid-brainwash, which carries with it a whole slew of other evils, not the least of which is major identity crisis.

Oh, had you known me when I was 16, and fresh out of The School. I wasn't even human, I swear it! Just a shell, used up, nothing inside. Well, no, that isn't quite true. There were things inside me, but those things had been banished to some locked room in my head. Don't speak of this. Don't think of that. Don't dare. Don't. Hide it. Seal it off. It doesn't exist if you don't give it a name.

So, as I came out of Denial, and into Anger, control became my weapon of choice. No-one can control me. I am me, and you are you. You aren't in my body, so you don't get to tell me what to do. You don't get to say what I like or don't like. You don't get to ask where I'm going and when. That's mine. My stuff. Me. The border between us is right here: My personal space. My three foot by six foot bubble. Mine. Trespassers will be shot.

But please, god-somebody-anybody...Let me be normal. Let somebody understand me and love me. I'll do anything, god-somebody-anybody. I'll make you a deal, I'll Bargain you anything. Please? If I stay real thin and look real pretty on the outside, is that enough? Can I be normal now? I'll laugh at everyone's jokes, and smile through my tears. I can do it. I'll do it. Please?

Sicker. Thinner. More hair dye. More laughter. More smiles. The public is watching. Maintain, Gage. Hold it together. You want to be normal, don't you?

No! I am not normal, goddammit. I suck. No matter what I do, no matter what shade of L'oreal red I pick, no matter how many stupid jokes I laugh at, no matter how many pounds I lose. I'm a fuck up. I'm never going to change. I'm never getting out of this. No-one will help me. No-one understands. No-one cares. Go die, Gage. Get screwed. Worthless trash. Statistic.

Hmm. You know what? No major breakthrough here, but notable, nonetheless: I don't really feel like that anymore, either. I don't have the balls to face the memouries of what happened, but I acknowledge that the memouries exist, that it did happen. Is that Acceptance? Am I, after nearly a decade, finally coming home?