I have been so busy, I haven’t had time to pen more in this volume, though I believe its value to future prisoners in such dire straights as myself remains undiminished. I fear I may simply be recording a slow decline into decadence and the ultimate failure of my resistance, perhaps condemning me in the eyes of my superiors; but, if nothing else, my story may serve as a cautionary tale for those who follow.
It is now almost 14 weeks since this tribulation began, four months of milk, of incomprehensible behavior from my captors, of being passed from hand to hand and slung over shoulders like baggage, of bizarre and terribly-written stories, of painfully off-key singing, of massive diapers and “desitin,” whatever that may be. I shall not mention the other tortures even too miserable to recall.
Through all, I have striven to remain stoic, strong, never succumbing… At least, not for long. But as time passes, I start to forget why I continue this battle. After all, Mommy and Daddy seem to mean well most of the time. I find myself asking why I strive so hard to resist, when capitulation would end all my troubles. I can no longer recall the real world from whence I came, and I begin to question my foundational beliefs.
What if Mommy and Daddy, Nana, Grammy, the Grandpas… What if these people aren’t the villains I thought? What if they actually do mean well? What if they really do care, and their actions come from some positive motive?
Blasphemy, I know. Yet as time passes, they seem less like huge ogres and more tender, more affectionate, and – oddly – more fun. Things I always thought were acts of torture may have some alternative explanation.
For example, I have always loathed tummy time, and made this abundantly clear by screaming, crying, and, in weak moments, flailing (I strive to never give them what they want, and limb movement during tummy time always draws accolades, so I try to lay still. But sometimes I can’t contain myself and I squirm). In recent days, however, I have discovered that I can lift my head off the ground on these occasions, and even conduct some covert surveillance under cover of strengthening my neck muscles.
So I remain uncertain about my captors, doubtful of my own mission, generally in turmoil. I pass this along to my captors by waking them at ungodly hours to demand food, although I can easily sleep through the night, and by refusing to establish a regular nap pattern to force Mommy and her compatriots to constantly adjust and make no firm plans. I have to go scream now – Mommy thought I’ve been napping, while I actually record these thoughts – because it’s been an hour and Mommy should never have more down time than that.