If money weren't an issue, I would spend the immediate future going to school to get a degree in sociology or creative writing. It would probably be a combination of the two. I'd probably never stop getting degrees because I genuinely love learning.

Each morning, I take two buses to get to work. I'm up so fucking early because of the time I need to be there and often share my commute with teenagers on their way to school. They are terrifying but so terrific in the ways they are so...social? That early in the morning? It couldn't be me, even if I'd had my morning cup of coffee before leaving the apartment. That hasn't happened lately because my anxiety has kept me set on only a few tasks each morning before going to work. Less caffeine is always better anyway.

I won't pass any more high schools on this new commute I begin in a few weeks. It's shorter, which is always lovely, but there are things about my routine I'm nervous about giving up. Change is hard. But it's good. Without it, I'm stuck, and I don't want that.

Since writing about Gayle yesterday, I can't help but think of what went on in her house of holy horrors. A few years ago, I called her adopted daughter, and we spoke for some time about her experience with Gayle (never referring to her as Mom), which helped me create a deeper understanding of my former babysitter. After that, I started to think Gayle began hoarding as a means of protection. But, of course, it's not the sole reason, just one I consider. She was protecting herself. Hiding us children away and then using our existence in her home to justify her illness. "Of course, I need all of these things; I have five children to look after!"

Gayle wasn't unclean with the way she stored things. She also did not keep food or living things other than myself, my siblings, and Tommy the cat. There were still mice, regardless of her lack of hoarding food. I remember my older brother being the one to remove the dead mice from the traps. That had to have been awful for him, though he always seemed eager to impress Gayle, and in this way, he achieved that. So, maybe not.

She held onto containers. Like, plastic takeout boxes, cutlery, cups. Then, there were papers she kept onto newspapers and magazines. Clothing that didn't fit any of us anymore. Clothing that was too large. She used boxes as makeshift dressers, flipping them topside front and stacking them one atop of another to create some shelving.

I'm dancing around the trauma I remembered and don't know how just to say it. While on my way to work yesterday morning, I had a physical reaction to a faint memory of Gayle wiping my bum after using the bathroom.

This summer was the first time I'd ever tried anything penetrative to something that wasn't my vagina. Ass stuff, you know? I don't know if I'm a fan of it, but that could be because of the trauma I think my brain was trying to unpack but couldn't. During this time, the person I was with communicated with me through the entire thing, and I asked if it was supposed to feel weird when happening? She asked me if I meant like I felt like I had to shit, and even though I said yes, that's not what I meant entirely.

I felt open afterward like I couldn't sit comfortably. Not painful in the slightest, just weird. It's the same feeling I would feel after I pooped for years as a kid and into my late teens and early 20s. I remember not being in the same room as people for at least half an hour because I felt this anxiety and discomfort.

On the bus, while thinking of these boxes and Gayle and my time with her, it seeped into my mind. I don't know if this actually happened, but I also don't understand why my mind would make up something. Maybe I'm that pressed for closure?

I'm no more than eight years old, and I'm bent over the tub in her bathroom, calling out for Gayle to wipe me. She told me to. I thought it was weird, but she said children don't know how to properly wipe themselves, so she had to do it for me. Her hands were cold like the porcelain my hands rested on. She remained behind me for what felt like hours but couldn't have been more than two or three minutes. She never said anything. I didn't either. There was no "this feels weird" or, "can you stop?" No, there was silence and powerlessness.

I wish I could take a nap, but it's time to get dressed and leave.

Seven more days.