“Let’s start with the beginning. Why did this happen to you?”

I shake my head; my gaze focuses on our hold. “I will never know why, Logan. But I can tell you when and how it started.”

“Okay. Let’s start there.” He brings our hands up to his mouth, gently kisses the back of my hand, and then places them back down on his thigh. I think it’s his way of safeguarding me, of expressing in his own little way that no matter what I disclose to him today, it will never change his feelings toward me. A restful breeze whips by and instantly I’m okay.

Breathing in and out as calmly as possible, I begin. “It was senior year of high school. My grades weren’t all perfect, so I was desperately trying to study my ass off so I could ace my SAT score. I wanted to be like Brooke.

“God, she managed to make everything seem effortless: school, getting into college, sports, and boys. Anything. You name it, she did it well. Nothing was difficult for her, which made my parents proud—especially my mother. I just wanted my mother to recognize me once in my life. Even before I was diagnosed with psychosis, our relationship was rocky.

“I think maybe she knew deep down I’d end up like this. I don’t know. I was in therapy when I was younger, starting when I was about ten. I suffered from depression as well as lack of social skills, which freaked my mother right out. So maybe she knew.” I shrug. “Anyway, back to senior year. I focused on trying to bring my grades up. They weren’t bad—more than average, really—but not perfect.

“I spent months studying: at home, the library, even at Eric’s place. I barely slept. I was a living, breathing zombie—if that’s even possible. I became obsessed with academics just so I could be on the receiving end of that look of pride on my mother’s face, just like she had given Brooke so many times before. Not even my talent impressed her. She never understood my art. It’s funny. You know how some people say you’re your biggest critic?” I chuckle, knowing that was never the case for me. “My mother was always mine.”

I picture the me from four years ago, at seventeen: the scared girl I’ve tried to rid from my brain as she struggled, trying to comprehend why this disease chose her. I stretch and tighten my fingers around Logan’s. My throat throbs with fear before I gain the courage to continue.

“It was a Sunday morning. I was in my bedroom, studying. The SAT exam was the next day and I was under a lot of stress. It was beautiful outside. Eric wanted to spend the day outdoors, but I just wanted to be locked in my room with no distractions. It’s how I spent most of my summer that year and most of the beginning of the school year. Eric and I had gotten into a minor argument—nothing big, more of a disagreement.

“I didn’t care. I just wanted to study. So there I was in my room with my nose in a book when I heard my name being called. It was so clear and loud. I looked up at the door, but there was no one there. I brushed it off as nothing and went back to studying. After a few seconds I heard my name again. I quickly looked up, searching around the room, but I was completely alone.”

“What did the voice sound like? Like someone you knew?” Logan asks.

“No. It was a male voice I’ve never heard before. When I heard my name for the second time, I got out of bed and searched around my room. I opened the door to look out. No one was there. I closed it and then walked over to my bedroom window. I thought maybe the gardener or my father was in the yard. But from what I could see, there was no one.

“I sat back on the bed, confused but easily distracted by the way my mind was racing with how much more I had to do. There were just so many notebooks and textbooks and highlighters and pens and scraps of paper. To say I was overwhelmed would be an understatement. Then the voice came again. It was closer this time, so close I actually felt it coming from behind me. It said, ‘You’ll never be good enough for her.’ I remember it like it was yesterday—how the goose bumps rose on every inch of my skin, the fear lodged in my throat, the sound of my breathing, its spastic rhythm matching my heartbeat. I finally found the courage to look behind me, but there was nothing there, only the headboard.”

Logan lets out a deep breath. “That must’ve been fucking scary for you. Especially at seventeen.” He shakes his head. “How long did you deal with the voice in your head before you were diagnosed?”

“Voices. It started as one voice and then it multiplied. They were getting louder and it was distracting. I couldn’t focus on school. It was difficult to keep up with a conversation. It was very scary. I just wanted them to go away, but it kept getting worse, to the point where they were telling me to kill myself. And then I had a breakdown with Eric.

“The voices were telling me he was seeing someone else. I didn’t know what was real or not. I didn’t know the difference between my own thoughts and the voices at that point. Everything began to blend together, and it drove me nuts. Finally, after three weeks of living through hell, I contacted Brooke, who was away at college. I was hysterical over the phone with her.

“She couldn’t understand a word I was saying. She was going to call our dad, but I begged her not to. So she did what any loyal big sister would: she drove the five-hour trip from her university to be by my side. When she got home, I told her everything that was happening to me, and she encouraged and finally convinced me to tell Dad. He took me to get assessed. I had several evaluations done, and that’s when I was diagnosed. At first they thought it was schizophrenia, but as my depression worsened, I was reexamined and my diagnosis was changed to schizoaffective.”

I look over at Logan, expecting a reply or comment or something. He meets my gaze, and his hand reaches up and caresses my face. “Within the last four years, was there ever a time when you didn’t hear the voices?”

I nod. “The first two years were very difficult for me. I didn’t want to believe I was sick in the head. Eric and I had split up, Brooke was away at school, my mother grew more and more distant, and Dad was working on expanding the company. I’d never felt more alone in my life. I went to a local college because that was all I could handle, and my father felt it was best to stay close to home. The new medication I was taking at the time was making me zone out. It stopped the voices, but I felt dead. I had no feelings—highs or lows—and I didn’t care about anything or anyone.

“So I stopped taking my medication. I lied to everyone, including my psychiatrist. They all thought I was still on my meds. I started to feel alive again, awake. I was able to focus more. But it only lasted a week. After that, the voices came back along with paranoia. I thought everyone was out to get me, that no one took my best interests to heart, and that they were all crazy and I was the sane one. And I definitely didn’t want to continue on with the medication. I hated the way I felt and the person I was becoming. I didn’t feel like me anymore.

“One day, I was told—by the voices—it would be best if I were dead, that it would be better for everyone who had to waste their lives taking care of me. And I thought they were right. I hated that Brooke drove back home every weekend just to be with me. I hated that Dad began to work from home on the weeknights that Charlie couldn’t stop by because he was afraid to leave me alone. And I hated that I managed to drive my mother further away. So I did what the voices asked me to do.”

“You tried to kill yourself?” Logan looks shocked, pained.

I nod.

“Jersey Girl,” he lets out shakily, and I can tell that the news of how I attempted to take my own life is hitting him hard. And with those two words he mourns for the girl I was. They’re an apology for the past, a thank you for the present, and a plea for the future.