Everyone from family to friends thinks I’m in therapy because I need to talk about my feelings after Brooke’s death. None of them know I’ve been in therapy practically all my life. If word got out that the McDaniels’ precious little girl, the only one they have left, is screwed up in the head, rumors would spread rapidly. And my mother wouldn’t want that.

Dr. Rosario clears her throat. Lifting her head, she stares at me through her glasses. “Jenna, how was your weekend?”

“Good,” I respond.

She smiles. “Did you do anything interesting?”

“No.”

“Nothing?”

“No,” I answer again.

There’s an awkward few seconds of silence. She finally huffs out, “Jenna, in order for this to work out, you need to be a bit more active in these sessions.”

“Active?”

“Yes. More involved. I ask you a question. You answer.”

“I am answering, Dr. Rosario.”

She uncrosses her leg, adjusts herself in the seat, and places my file down flat on her lap. “Yes, you are, but I’d like a little more. A bit more description would be nice. Do you think you can do that?”

“Sure.” I cross my arms over my chest. She wants more description. I can handle that. I lean back against the three thousand dollar white leather sofa.

“Good.” She nods. “Okay, so how was your weekend?”

“It was good.”

“Did you do anything interesting?”

“No. I. Did. Not.” I emphasize every single word—descriptively, of course. I understand this is a bit childish of me, but let’s face it, she’s counting down the time just as much as I am. Only thing is I’m counting down to get out; she’s counting to get paid.

Of course, since she’s been my psychiatrist for the last year, she knows how to push my buttons. She leans back with a daring expression on her face. “Did you have a chance to work on your painting this weekend?”

There. She’s done it. She’s hit a nerve. I shift uncomfortably and tear my eyes away to settle over her desk on the left-hand side of the office. It’s an excessively large desk if you ask me. “No, I didn’t have an urge to do so.” She knows how to make me tick. Right now I’m ticking. “But I did look over a few old paintings,” I confess.

“Good, Jenna. That’s a start. How did you feel when you looked at them? Did it bring anything up for you?”

Another tick. “I felt and remembered things that I’ve worked hard to forget.”

She nods in understanding and scribbles something down. “Most individuals try to forget certain events or parts of their life for various reasons. It’s normal. We feel if we don’t revisit these memories or feelings, then there’s less of a chance for vulnerability or a potential breakdown. But I find when I go back and learn how to cope with these issues and memories, there’s a better chance that I learn how to deal with them and know what to do if I’m faced with them in the future.”

I laugh at the last comment, turn my head from the desk, and dart glares at her. My expression is serious now; I can hear the ticking in my head. TICK. TICK. TICK. It grows louder, faster. Soon I’ll be ready to explode. “That’s exactly what I don’t want. I don’t want to ever deal with any of it again. I’m trying to have it all go away.” My hands drop to my thighs. “I don’t need it. I’m comfortable staying in the small cave of my room, away from everyone, completely isolated. I’m fine with never going out, having friends, or ever meeting someone. I understand this is my life.” I point at my chest, staring at her intensely. I’m trying to make her fully understand, but it’s pointless. She never will. No one ever will. “I know that I’m going to be alone, so I accept it, Dr. Rosario. I’m one hundred and ten percent okay with knowing that I’ll always be sick in the head. Some days will be good, and others will be extremely ugly—”

She shakes her head. “No, Jenna. You can live a normal life. There are numerous recovery stories from people with your same condition. We just have to work through it, and we can do that together.”

Work through it? What the hell does she think I’ve been doing for the last four years? The fucking bomb explodes. Standing, I hover over the coffee table, which, lucky for her, separates the space between us. “No, Dr. Rosario! You don’t get it and you never will because you don’t know what I go through. You don’t know what it’s like for me. You can pump me full of as much medication as you like, send me to therapy seven days a week, and even try a new treatment. I will always have this”—I stab an index finger at my temple—“in here. The voices and the thoughts, bad and good. You’re talking to me and so is someone else—sometimes more than one someone else.” My head feels foggy. I take a few deep breaths and try to calm down. I will not cry in front of her. Turning my back to her, I gather my things from the couch quickly.

“Jenna, our session isn’t over.”

“It is for me,” I scoff. “And I won’t be coming back.”

Dr. Rosario rushes to her feet, her eyes wary. She lifts both hands to caution me as I storm toward the door. “Jenna, think about what you’re doing.”

I’ve thought about this for a long time. It’s time to try to do this on my own. “Thank you for the last year, but I think I’m ready to be on my own now.”

“Jenna, please,” she begs. “The most important part of treatment for someone with your disorder is to have a support team.”

“I have one. Myself. I’m all the support I need.” With that said, I turn on my heel and walk out of Dr. Rosario’s office.

As I storm down the hall with tears prickling my eyes from rage, I wonder if what I just did is actually best for me. The moment I step outside and feel the warm air, I expect relief, to feel free somehow. This is what I wanted, right?

Instead, I feel more lost than ever.

I’m not exactly certain how long it’s been since I stepped out of Dr. Rosario’s office. Days. Weeks. Honestly, I lost count. Days like this are when I’m at my worst. Days without eating, without seeing daylight. Days when I ignore every call.

I’m entirely secluded.

My father is busier than ever. With his company in its prime, he’s barely home to notice. My mother, well, she’s off shopping or at the latest local housewives committee meeting, discussing the latest gossip. She barely takes note of my depressed days. And that’s awesome. I’m happy that I don’t have parents who watch my every move.

I do, however, have an annoying friend who won’t leave me the hell alone. Like right now. Charlie is banging on my bedroom door at this very second. If I hear one more damn knock, I might get out of bed, unlock the door, and strangle her until every strand of her curly blonde hair frizzes.

“Jenna, if you don’t open this goddamn door, I’ll break it down!” More banging. “And just because I’m this one hundred and fifteen pound, five-foot woman doesn’t mean I don’t have the strength to get through!”

“Leave me alone,” I mumble, rolling into my sheets. I cover my face with a pillow.

“That’s it. You leave me no choice. I’m getting one of the contractors out back to saw this damn door open.”

What. The. Hell.

She will, too; that’s the screwed up part. Damn her. And damn my mother for giving her a key to the house. Damn her again for being a pain in my ass. Dammit all! I roll out of bed, stumble toward the door, and swing it open. Charlie, with her arms crossed, raised brow, and pissed-off look, stands on the other side. I size her up slowly and turn, leaving the door open as I walk back to my bed. “And it’s one hundred and thirty pounds at four foot eleven,” I correct. Somebody’s got to keep her honest.

She lets out a frustrated groan. “I am five foot.” I’m not going to argue with her. Not now. I just don’t have the strength. My body flops onto the plush surface of my mattress. Mummy style, I wrap myself back up in my sheets. The bed sinks in as she hops on. “I’m not doing this with you today, Jenna.”