Chapter 75: Moby

I hate this place. I've only been here a week, but I can't deny what it's doing to me mentally. I see my personality changing, the darkness breaking my spirit, the long days of rehab doing nothing for my psyche but forcing me to acknowledge just how bleak my future is. Every day, I see a physical therapist for an hour, an occupational therapist for an hour, a speech therapist for an hour, a psychiatrist for an hour, and group sessions, that while they only last an hour seem endless. I'm the youngest person here, other than the staff, by at least thirty years. I have nothing in common with anyone surrounding me except they too have given up the fight.

It's hard to stay positive, or even motivated when nothing in my body functions the way it did just a few weeks ago. If I hear one more time, your brain has to form new pathways to relearn the tasks you once did I may punch someone in the throat. I don't want to learn new pathways, I don't want to learn to walk again, I don't want someon