I’d rather you care about the person you think I am than you not care about me at all.
But, really, I want all your love.
And I want it for the real me. Not the girl you see when you look at me, the one who can read two books a day and offer up a Latin quip anytime.
I’ve been on medication the last year.
I have depression.
It didn’t start with anything. I let my therapist believe it started when Grandma had that heart attack and insisted I stay here for the summer. I let my parents believe that I needed help because I wasn’t dealing with her illness well. But that isn’t true. It was already there. I was already having all these ugly thoughts about making it all go away.
Whenever I would borrow Mom’s car, when I was driving up or down the 405, I’d think about how easy it would be to crash into the divider. To not feel anything anymore.
I don’t have as many of those thoughts anymore. That voice that tells me I’m worthless, a failure, that no one loves me, that I’m a drain, that everyone is better off without me—it’s quieter now.
But it’s not gone.
It will never be gone.
Sometimes it’s stronger. One day, it might be strong enough to convince me to act on it.
Medications stop working. My doctor warned me about that. Offered a bunch of hotlines.
It’s hard to imagine swallowing a bottle of sleeping pills. Or taking a razor blade to my wrists. Or finding some tall building.
But it’s possible.
That voice was so loud and so ugly.
If it comes back…
How can you love someone who might kill herself?
How can I ask that of you?
I haven’t told anyone except my therapist.
But I want you to know.
I want you to know and not run away.
I’m always going to be broken.
A knock on my door breaks my concentration.
I snap the notebook shut. “Hey.”
“Hey.” Emma taps her fingers against the door. “Can I come in?”
“Yeah.” I push up from my desk. “I’ll come out. Let’s watch something.”
She pulls the door open. Leans against the frame. “I was going to ask you that.”
“That’s why we’re soul mates,” I tease.
“Really?” Her voice brightens. “I’ve beaten out Katniss?”
“Katniss doesn’t make me chocolate chip pancakes.”
Emma laughs. She takes my hand and leads me down the stairs.
The room is the same as always. Clean. Quiet. Still.
She motions to the couch. Then to the kitchen. “Or you can help.”
“Sure.” I follow her into the tiny space and get out all the wet ingredients.
She grabs the dry ones. Measures them into a giant white bowl. “You have a look.”
“It’s craving for chocolate.”
“No. It’s something else. Contemplation.”
“Is that different than normal?”
Emma laughs as she licks sugar from a spoon. “Good point.”
I crack two eggs and start whisking. I am contemplative. I need to talk to someone. And I want to talk to her. She’s my best friend. “You think I could tell you anything that would change your opinion of me?”
“Sure.” She takes the eggs, pours them into the bowl, stirs. “If you killed someone. Or if you failed a class. Or if you fucked Dean.” Her eyes light up as she turns to me. “Did you fuck Dean?”
“No.”
“You’re blushing.”
I am?
“You did something!” The spoon drops with a splat. Her hand goes over her mouth. “Oh my God, Kay, you did!”
I try a coy shrug.
“Bullshit. What did you do with Dean?”
“Nothing.”
“Liar.”
Maybe there is a way to say this without lying. At least technically. “I might have let someone…” I motion to my shorts.
“You let someone finger you?” She nearly shouts it.
“God, Em, you’re gross.”
She laughs. “You’re the one letting Dean finger you.”
I can’t keep up the stern expression. I’m laughing too. This is normal. Girl talk. Only she doesn’t realize it’s about her brother.
I fill a measuring cup with chocolate chips then hand them to Emma.
“Was it good?” She plops a chip in her mouth.
I nod.
“Great?”
“Amazing.”
“Damn, Dean gives amazing… finger, I guess?”
“I would know?”
“Apparently.” She motions to the stove.
I turn it on then grab a pan and the oil.
“Wow. You and Dean. I can’t believe it.”
“Me either.” There. The pan is hot enough. I add the oil and tilt the pan so it coats the surface.
“So are you two going to—” She clicks her tongue twice.
“I think so.”
Emma squeals and throws her arms around me. “My little girl’s all grown up.”
“Stop it, Mom, you’re embarrassing me.”
She giggles. “Now, listen, honey.” She takes on a perfect Mom voice. “I don’t care what he tells you about pulling out or how clean he is. Unless you’ve seen a test result, you make sure he wraps it up. And since he’s a manwhore, you make sure he wraps it up either way. No glove, no love.”
“God, Mom! You think I’m a kid or something?”
“You know I only remind you because I love you.”