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

serious condition.”
    I fucking know that, I want to tell her. No fucking shit.
    “When did you first see a therapist for depression?”
    “Middle school,” I say. I’m at the end of the room again. There’s a painting here on the wall, a terrible painting of a flower. It looks like something you’d find in a motel room. I wish I could rip it off the wall.
    I pivot. Fly apart.
    “Did something happen in middle school to trigger your depression?”
    I don’t say anything. I can’t breathe.
    “Bullying?” she asks. “Abuse at home? Divorce? Anything like that?”
    I reach the desk. I pivot. I’m a tiger caged. I’m a wild animal. I’m lightning arcing between two wires. I’m going to fly...
    “Bianca.” Debbie’s voice is gentle. “If you sit down, we can talk.”
    “I’m not sitting!” I almost shout. If I sit, I’ll be trapped. If I sit, we will talk.
    If I sit, I might say something I’ll regret.
    “Okay,” she says. “That’s okay. Do you want to talk about your drinking?”
    “No,” I say.
    “Then the probation?”
    “I don’t want to get kicked out of school.” I’m pacing so fast now it takes me only three steps to get from one end of the room to the other. I want to hit the walls with my fists, kick in the cheap sheet rock, escape, escape.
    Don’t ask me anything else, I plead inside my head. Don’t make me feel anything else. I’ll—
    “It won’t be the end of the world,” she says. “Lots of people leave college and then go back to complete their studies—”
    “I’m on scholarship,” I say. To my endless shame, my voice is trembling. “This is my one chance to go to school and not get buried in debt. If I flunk out, I have to go back home!”
    Her blue eyes are sharp, watching me pace. “You don’t want to go home?”
    “Who does?” I snap. “Who would want to move back home after getting to leave?”
    I’m about to fly.
    She writes something down on her clipboard.
    “Stop analyzing me,” I say.
    She looks up, surprised. “I’m not analyzing. These are just notes so I can keep my thoughts in order.”
    I stop in the middle of the room. “You can’t help me,” I tell her.
    She blinks. “I’m sorry?”
    “You can’t help me,” I say again. “I can’t do this. I have to get out of here.”
    She stands up, her thin hands reaching for me. I shy away.
    “This isn’t right,” I say. “You won’t understand.”
    She drops her hands. “Maybe not,” she says. “But I understand what it means to be happy and stable. I could teach you.”
    I pick up my backpack. “No, you can’t,” I say. “You can’t. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I have to go.”
    “Are you sure?”
    “Yes!” I say.
    She stands very still, as though I am a deer ready to bolt. “You can come back any time you like,” she tells me. “If you want to do your sessions outside, or somewhere else, we don’t have to do them here.”
    Like it matters where I tear my heart out and give it to someone to look at. “No. I’m going.” I pick up my bag. “I’m really sorry,” I say again, and I will fall, I will fly, I will fall apart—
    “It’s okay,” she says, and then I’m out the door.
    Guilt burns in my belly. I’m terrible. I can’t even fake it for her. All I’d have to do is go in, have a little cry, pretend being sad is all that’s wrong with me, and then she’d feel better.
    But I want to feel better, and she can’t help me. She wants to help me, and I know she can’t.
    I hate therapists. I hate making them fail.
    I half-walk, half-run down the narrow hallways, and I remember so many different offices before this one, places that were cramped, or spacious, or bright or dark, places that were oh so professional, and they would teach me oh so many things about being normal, about moving on, if only I would commit, if only I would allow myself to open up and do the work. Do the work, do the work.
    Fuck you, I think, and I don’t know if I’m thinking of