When people asked her what she couldn’t live without, she’d smile and say, “My journal.” People would nod politely. The truth was, though, without her journal, she couldn’t remember who she was. In a mixture of different handwriting and emotion, memories poured out of her mind in a desperate attempt to be recalled. Inevitably, something would scatter it all for her. She saw herself as a little girl building beautiful sandcastles of memories in her mind, as waves of trauma wiped them away. She had learned to cope, but nothing could prepare her for the day her journal was stolen.