Where I End and You Begin by Andra Brynn Read Free Book Online

introduce herself as doctor, but it’s clear she’s going to be my counselor.
    I swallow and follow her inside. She shuts the door behind me.
    She gestures that I take a seat on one of the couches and I do. I’m finding it hard to breathe. She sits down across from me and hands me a box of tissues.
    I put the box down next to me. If she thinks I’m going to cry in front of her, she is sorely mistaken. Therapists love it when you cry. It means you’re feeling something. But I don’t want to feel anything. Where is the therapist who will teach me how to do that?
    “Hi, Bianca,” she says. “Please call me Debbie.
    “Debbie,” I say. “Why not Dr. Chandler?
    She smiles. “I’m a grad student in clinical psychology. This is part of my training. Are you comfortable with that?”
    I nod, because the truth is I wouldn’t be comfortable with a regular doctor, or anyone. I don’t want to be here. I don’t. There are no windows in here, and I have to breathe deeply to get any oxygen at all.
    “So,” she says, pulling a clipboard into her lap and tucking her feet under her, “what would you like to talk about today?”
    I stare at her. She’s nice. Her blue eyes are sincere. Her lips are thin but her smile is genuine.
    “I was told to come here,” I say. “I got put on academic probation on Tuesday.”
    She raises her eyebrows. “On Tuesday? That usually happens at the end of the semester. Why Tuesday?”
    I look away. “I came to one of my classes drunk.”
    She writes something on her clipboard. “Do you drink a lot?” she asks.
    “Yes,” I say. “A lot.” I am staring at the fake plastic plant next to me. It’s covered in dust. The picture of health, but it’s really dead and frozen. I suddenly have the silly feeling that this whole college is just a place where people go to be arrested in time. The lifers, the fifth year sophomores, the graduate students, the post-doctoral academics...we’re all here, suspended in amber.
    From the corner of my eye I see Debbie look at me sharply. “Okay. Well, I can’t imagine getting put on probation helps with the desire to drink.”
    I almost crack a smile at that, but I stifle it. “Yeah,” I say. “Probation is no fun sober.”
    She nods and writes on her clipboard again, and my stomach is starting to churn.
    I stand up and she looks at me in surprise.
    “I hate sitting on the couch,” I say.
    “You’ve been to counseling before?” she asks.
    “Yes,” I say. “I can’t sit on the couch.” Nervous energy runs through my limbs, and I bite my lips, my toes curling in my shoes.
    “Has therapy helped you before?” she asks.
    I hate saying this. “No.”
    I can’t even look at her. I start to pace. My heart is racing and I cross my arms to keep my hands from shaking. I twist the thick material of my hoodie between my fingers and hold onto myself for dear life. If I let go, I think, I might fly apart. I see it in my head, my body disintegrating, floating up into the sky, scattering across the universe, until I’m just stardust and darkness.
    “I see,” she says. I hate telling therapists that therapy hasn’t worked. Then they look at it as a sort of challenge. I will be the one who helps this poor girl, they think. I will save her.
    I reach the end of the room and pivot, walking back to the desk. The space is so small, not nearly big enough to hold all my anxiety. I’m almost vibrating with it. I’ll fly apart. The thought is stuck in my brain, like a song on endless loop.
    “What sort of problems have you had in the past that you’ve sought therapy for?” she asks me.
    I laugh, and it’s short and sharp. “Depression,” I tell her. “That’s it. Just depression.” I’m going to fly apart. I hug myself tighter.
    I reach the desk and pivot. My breath is cold in my throat. I can feel it curling in the back of my mouth, as though it wants to be let out in a scream.
    “Depression is nothing to joke about,” Debbie says. “It’s a