There are yellowing diaries lying quietly on my messy desk. This is different from those little girls who cherish spring and neatly write their love for spring in green characters. What is recorded on these yellowing pages is a twisted and ferocious childhood. But fortunately, the owner of this childhood is not me.
The words on the yellowed pages were scrawled and frivolous. They pieced together my memories in a pictographic way, and then forced me to secrete waves of pain and sadness. When I wanted to describe her in an outsider's way, I paused and ran out of words.
How to say? When something is worth recording in your diary, it must be in your heart. I was forced by God to be her insider, so it was an unshirkable responsibility to protect her, tolerate her, and love her, even if the three dazzling and despicable words "mental illness" in the eyes of the world were covered directly above her head.
Conception: