"What is your story?"

You get asked this question every time you meet a new therapist. They ask you this question then dive deeper into the problems you have, hence the reason why you are in therapy. It is very strange how therapy works. It is a one-way conversation about you and your problems and your little piece in this puzzle we call life.

I stare at the pristine, white ceiling, laying on my back on this cold brown leather couch, arms dangling off. Over time you start to perfect a paragraph summarizing your life span so far. It is just a habit you get when you are in therapy for a long time. You usually take a deep breath, reading yourself for the hour ahead of you, and start.

"My name is Daisy McCarthy and I have bipolar disorder. On the inside, I can have an existential crisis on one day and be completely fine the next. But on the outside, I am a normal 18-year girl like the next. I attend Restwood High School as a senior - and yes, I am totally ready to leave immediately. I have had the same friends for a long time, which includes my best friend turned into boyfriend. I lived with my dad basically my entire life. I know you are going to ask to describe myself so here it is: I am the most perfectionist, most indecisive, most anxious, most dramatic, most chaotic, most spontaneous person I have ever known. Think of me like a town crier - you never know what the news is and at the end you will always hear 'God save the Queen'"

After you sell yourself away you hear the scribbling and mumbling of the professional, their minds already thinking of the step after next. Until they are ready to talk you analyze their office. How clean it is, what decoration is hanging, if they keep snacks in view, diplomas, arrangements and setting can influence whether you are a good therapist or not. I usually like offices to be clean, simple, flow-y, and keep as many snacks in my eyes as possible. If you are having guests in your office, you should have the courtesy of keeping your office good looking.

"So, Daisy, do you have a good relationship with your dad?" is the first thing she asks.

"Yeah, we are weird together." I smiled in spite of myself. My dad is one of a kind.

"And what does he do?

"He is a radiologist."

"And you see enough of him?"

"He can work at home and at the hospital. We see each other a lot but we have our space." I turn to my side to face her.

She scribbles down more notes, her eyes flickering between her notepad and at the slender figure lying awkwardly across from her.

"And what about your mom? Do you have a good relationship with her too?" the therapists ask, folding her hands on her notes.

"I would rather keep that private," I said rather sternly. I felt the hairs on my neck stand straight.

"Are you sure?" she asked somewhat timidly.

I propped myself on one arm, my curtain of brown, silky hair covering my exposed right shoulder as my shirt betrayed it.

"I do not like to talk about certain things with people I am not cool with." The anger in me starts to fizz but I try my hardest to fight it. I know that if I lash out on all my problems right now, I will have to stay longer. Right now, all I really want to do is to leave and be somewhere else.

I throw myself back on the couch ready for the next stupid question that she is going to ask me.

"Ok that is fine. I would just like to remind you that this is a-"

"Safe space" I finish in my head. If this was such a "safe space" why are my hands sweating so much, my heart beating a million miles per minute, and my stomach emptying the mega shawarma I just had 20 minutes ago?

She continues to ask about 1500 other things. School, friends, the person I am more than friends with, how my body is dealing with change, the future, food, and a million subtopics that I give measly answers to; if I am being honest, I have been more focused on finding the sweet spot on this couch than my answers.

"So, what is your goal you want to achieve with this?" she asked at 5 to 4.

Every person has a different answer to this specific questions, if asked at all. You could be super specific and say, "lessen my dermatillomania so my hands can be more beautiful", or you could say something broader like -

"Get rid of my bipolar disorder."

I said it so unceremoniously that it was like I was stating the color of the sky.

I hear the sigh, loud and clear, and I know where this is headed. I shouldn't have said that. The therapist leans forward with her hands on her knees as though she was about to spill a secret.

"Daisy this is not like other health conditions with a magical cure-all. It is something that is going to be with you forever. This is your life now. You are just going to have to learn to live with it and learn how to control it at time. It is going to come out at certain times, but it is never going away."

"So, you are basically saying that I am going to be sick and helpless till I die?" I did not look at her, but instead I kept my gaze at the ceiling, though I could still see her out of the corner of my eye. I felt stupid. I knew all this that she was saying to me but for some unknown reason I needed a verbal confirmation right now. 

She sighs again and says "I am sorry. That came out wrong. But what I am trying to say is-"

DING!

I check my phone and see that I got a message. And it was a person who I actually wanted to be with right now.

I also see that it is already 4 o'clock. Thank the heavens. I jump up, having energy I did not have 15 minutes ago, and grab all my personal belongings, ready to leave.

"I appreciate your time today. Hmmm... when is my next appointment?" Though I did not want to come back I knew a lot of other people would be upset with me if I did not. Plus, she was not that bad compared to some of the others I have met before.

She stands up and holds out her hand. I shake it while she says, "You will have to check with the receptionist." I do not know if she is annoyed or entertained by the scene in front of her.

I dash out of the office, my feet being light and swift, ready to leave this place. But I am stopped by a very thick Southern Georgia accent. She kind of sticks her head out of the window and looks at me.

"Do you need anything sweetie? Another appointment or a cup of joe?"

I walk back to the window and say, "Option A, please." I love these types of accents. They make me feel like I am in a small town where everyone knows everyone. Somewhere where there is only one street where all the fun stuff is. I wished I lived that lifestyle sometime. Imagine knowing everyone in your entire city. Takes the saying "One hand washes the other" to another level. 

She sits back down and gives a very girlish giggle. Her fingers start to tap dance on her keyboard. After she wrote her essay, she looked back at me.

"Alright pumpkin, the earliest I have is the same time, next Thursday. That's alright?" she asks, her pen poised over an appointment card, ready to make my next appointment official.

"Yeah, that is fine."

"Alrighty then, here you go. Now run along, looks like a lover boy by the door is ready to give you a steamy kiss." Her eyes are towards the window to a certain figure.

I turn around and see she is right. A certain lover boy is looking through the window from outside. He has a goofy grin plastered on his face; his hands cupped around his eyes to help him see better through the window. He looked like he was trying to be discreet, but it failed. I grab the card and run outside, thrusting myself into comfort. I hear a soft exhale somewhere over my head and next thing I know the hands of this creature find my chin and lifts my face, giving me the sweetest kiss.

He pulls away, looking lost in my eyes for what seemed like an eternity, then says "Let's go."

We walked to the car and like the gentlemen he is, and I was blessed with, he situated me in the car first then himself. I roll down the window, allowing the sweet smell of chilly winter to hit me.

As we are leaving, I hear the tinkle of wind chimes. I look back at the therapist's office and see South Georgia standing outside the door, waving frantically and clinging to the door, yelling "CALL ME FOR THE WEDDING!"

I roll the window back up and sit down like a sane person sitting in the passenger seat on the highway. I look to my left and see a piece of my world.

Greyson Rossi lll. It sounds so fancy, so regal, like he is the heir for a throne. Funnily enough he is the heir to something (It is not a throne). His father, Greyson "Stefano" Rossi ll, inherited and is now CEO of Goldsworth, an international brand of 5-star hotels, and as a plus the building here in motherland Houston, Texas is the 3rd tallest building in the world. Talk about a wow factor.

Greyson, that is to say Greyson my boyfriend, does have a complicated relationship with his family. They want him to co-own the company after he graduates, but he wants to hold off for a bit. Go to college and stuff. Live life a little.

Stepping away from his family and his (un)fortune, he is a normal 18-year-old guy like the next. He is also a senior at Restwood High School, captain of the varsity basketball team, has 2 best friends that complete our group, Daniella and Joshua, and one amateur, does not deserve him girlfriend.

"What do you want to do right now?" he asks as he makes an unnecessary left turn. People typically ask this question before you really get on the road, but he likes to drive. Takes his mind off things, calms him down.

"Food!" I speak like a little toddler. I could use the calories.

"Food?" he asks agreeingly.

"Yeah. A person is kind of hungry."

"Alright then let's get this person a snack. It is almost dinner time." he said responsibly.

I see the time and see that it is barely 4:30. A little late but still an acceptable time for lunch, but I am starving so I am not going to argue.

We drive for about 15 minutes before we arrive at the holy grail - PIFF's. PIFF's is arguably the best hang out place in Houston, plus it gets an extra bonus for its adorable retro 60's themed diner. From the cute booths to the art on the wall to the music playing there, it really takes you to another time. One time the student body was hosting a sock hop at PIFF's, and I am not going to lie, I had fun. That was the only school party I have ever been to in my entire life. I even had the confidence to dress up as Audrey Hepburn which garnered a lot of people to look at me. First time I actually felt comfortable with people looking at me.

I take off my seatbelt as we pull into the parking lot, thinking we are going inside, but we go through the drive thru instead. This can mean one of two things: that he has had an extremely long day, or we are going to see a very special someone. I pray for witnesses' sake that he is just tired and he just wants to go home.

"Hey what can I get you?" asked the guy working, his tone so chill. On a side note, don't sound so cheery when you are asking for my order, okay. We both don't want to be here so just get me my food and we can both continue on with our day.

"2 medium fries and a small vanilla shake," Greyson says, looking at me. I nod, in agreement with this order.

"That will be all?"

"Yeah."

"Alright, $5.32, second window please."

After 6-dollar bills were pulled out from the safe, a "keep the change" was spoken, and the sweet aroma of fried potatoes and whipped cream filled the car we left. I was so hungry that I snatched the white paper bag away from him and opened something better than heaven. I immediately start munching on them - Greyson soon joins me, and occasionally dipping some in the milkshake. I forgot everything for a while until we pulled up in the dingy alleyway.

When he parks, I throw the bag at him, not feeling sorry about it at all about dropping the fries all over him. I sigh and pick up all the fallen soldiers from his pants. He was looking at me but I was ignoring his eyes. We don't talk during this- you could feel the tension swirling around us- but afterward he decides to poke the dragon.

"Just go say hi," he said exasperatingly, folding the bag. I look outside to the building, counting the levels till the 6th floor. There resides a person who I have mixed feelings about. There was a person who was one half responsible for me being alive. There resides a person who should not make me feel like this. I contemplate who I should fight with.

"Let's just go home," I say, my voice almost sounding like it's pleading. I am, actually. I don't want to.

"Just go say hi then leave," he quietly whispered to me. He sounds so calm and peaceful, saying this like it is the easiest thing in the world to do, but for me it would be like walking to my death. That statement is half sarcastic and the other half is, well, candor.

"Why?" I softly spoke.

He sighed, looking at me hard. I look towards my feet, a habit I couldn't let go of from when I was a child. Looking at the ground saved me from having to look at other people, at other problems, at my own flaws. "Because it is better to fix burned bridges now than 10 years later."

I look at the wise guy across from me and think if I should still bark back. He knows that his words can sway me easily. He always knows what is best for me and helps me navigate the murky areas of my life when I have no sense of direction.

I decided to listen to his advice and think the sooner, the better. I open the door and get out, looking at the rickety stairs that I despise using. I start climbing higher and higher, each step creaking with the unusual added pressure on it. I finally reach the door with a rusty brass 6 on it. Dirt and grime are covering it so much that it looks like it has been there since the dinosaurs roamed the Earth. My hands start to quiver as I place my it on the doorknob. My breathing starts to become uneven. I can even feel my heart physically pounding against my chest.

I finally open the unlocked door after all the fear spread through my body. My eyes take a minute to adjust, and I cough heavily due to the dust in the air. I cover my mouth with my sleeve, trying to see what is going on.

Right now, I am in the dingiest hallway ever known to man with a barely working, flickering yellow light bulb. Beer bottle caps litter the place and there are mysterious holes and stains on the musty, damp carpet. The place reeks with such pungent odors. There is currently no sign of life.

I walk further in, trying to find somebody. I peer into the open bedroom door, if you can call it that with all the trash heaps in there. The bed has sheets that looked like they haven't been changed since I finally left this dump. The lights make the room look so depressing. I finally reach the living room and a whole new scene takes the silver screen.

The living room is very dirty, like dirt stuck in the crevasses, couch, and to match with it are damp, moth-eaten curtains. The coffee table, which does not match with the rest of the furniture, has many burn marks, and the paint is chipped all around the sides. All around the place, decorating it very disgustingly, are various glass bottles of various drinks, used tissues and empty tissue boxes, cigarette butts and cigarette boxes, dirty clothes, and bags full of trash piled to the sky. It is the same story, more or less, in the kitchen except there is the biggest throw up stain in the entire apartment in the corner by the sink. I see the orange bottles laid open across the table. She tried again.

Speaking of 'she', I finally found the dirtiest piece of trash in the whole apartment. She is laying across the couch in mom jeans, a very stained Nirvana shirt, and the most lumberjack red flannel shirt on top. The hair I inherited is very greasy and unbrushed and her fingernails, which once were so polished, now had years' worth of dirt stuck under them. In her right hand is an almost empty beer bottle and in her left is a cigarette that is still slightly burning. The vanity she had from her youth is now gone and has been replaced with wrinkles and the effects of drinking and smoking.

But to counter all that, she is sleeping peacefully, the way I like her to be.

I turned around and started walking towards the door, fully intending to leave, but destiny or fate or God or whatever else wanted a bit of a show this fine winter's evening.

Georgie, a white pomeranian, walked in through the doggie door. He was trotting along the place, then saw me midway to the door. He froze for a second to register me then, all of a sudden, started to bark like crazy. He ran in the living room, I am right behind him, and started to run all over the place. He just looks like a ball of white fuzz jumping around from table to couch to chair to counter to floor. I knew that she was going to wake up from the barking. I tried to calm him down but instead Georgie went right by her ear and started to bark even louder.

"Get off Georgie! Bad Boy!" I quietly yelled to him. He stopped everything he was doing, turned his head towards me, and gave me that "Did you really just yell at me?" face. I froze, hoping he would just calm down. But instead, he went the total opposite direction and barked louder than ever. You couldn't hear thunder over this dog.

"Shut up, your stupid dog!" she said, slapping her hand around the couch trying to find the mole to whack. Georgie skirts around the mallet and jumps on top of her chest, barking directly in her face. She finally sits up right, all the trash and the dog finally get off her and smacks her lips tastefully. She looks punch drunk. Her eyes looked crossed. She kind of sways as she tries so sit up on the couch. Her eyes slowly look around the place, then finally notices me.

"Hey," she says as a greeting to me, as though we barely passed each other in the hallway. She still is looking around the place as though she is trying to look for something.

"Lori," I say back. I unconsciously take a step back from her, something I learned to do as a child, and cross my arms.

She glares at me and says, "You know a child usually calls the person who literally gave them birth, mom."

The pot that was boiling earlier is started up again, though a bit more subtle. I am more scared than I am angry. "Last time I checked true moms don't break their families apart." I tried to say this strongly, but it came out kind of broken up.

She laid back down and took a swig of beer, smacking her lips as though it was the best thing in the whole entire world. The disgusting bottle of cheap beer that was brewed in a stoic factory with a person who overruns it not caring about how many lives it could ruin but instead more invested in the money they are going to make instead.

"It is barely 4 o'clock," I said, my tone and face displaying disgust in unison.

"In my book 4 o'clock is the time to sample the drinks.," she said depressingly. She took another swig and said "Cheers," so gloomily.

We both look at each other for a second then she looks at me inquiringly. Out of the blue she asks, "Who brought you here?" so aggressively.

"Why do you care?"

"It is your little boyfriend. If he lets you call him that."

"Well, surprise, surprise, it was him who brought me here. And he is the one who actually told me to come up here."

She looks like a mad bull, but I did not care. Whatever she is going to say next is very stupid.

"I thought I told you were not allowed to date him."

I fold my arms and roll my eyes. "And you act like I care about what you have to say. If you think for a second that he tries to hit on me, think again. He respects other people too much to even think about doing anything to them."

She looks at me with the most amount of hate that I haven't seen in a while. I know that she is trying to find something to counter that point but she fails miserably. Instead, she grumbles "He is going to ruin himself if he keeps being with you. And your problem."

I am ready to rip her apart, limb from limb. "Oh, since when did you become an expert whose name I ruin?"

"BECAUSE YOU RUINED MINE!" she said these words so loud that everything in the vicinity shook from the volume of her voice. It sure did scare me, something she knows how to do very well.

"Everything I had, you ruined it," she growls this so slowly it makes me get chills. She gets up and is towering over me. I immediately felt suffocated by her. She pokes a finger hard in my chest, bringing back repressed memories. She is pushing it is deep so hard that she 'accidently' pushes me a little. Her nail was slowly digging into my skin. "Everything! I had all the riches, all the fame, all the accolades I had- had wanted- then you ruined it when you came. You brought your stupid problem into the mix, and I was turned into absolutely nothing. Nothing" She looked like she was on the verge of tears. "I had everything," she said in her deadliest voice she keeps just for me. For a second I believed it to be true. I believed every word she was saying.

But then I remembered the truth.

I look at this moron for one more second before I turn around and storm into the hallway. I open the door, forcing myself out, then slam it shut, almost ripping it off its old hinges. I ran down the creaky steps, almost falling a total of 4 times, then when I finally reached the bottom I had something in my head that is considered illegal in the good parts of the city.

I look around for a nice, hefty rock and walk over to the beat up 2002 gold prius; what once held shine and glory now held dullness and dirt. Using the same force I used on the door earlier I, somehow with a shaky arm, aim for a bullseye on the windshield. The rock hits the glass and immediately all the glass falls into the car. I am pretty sure you could hear the shattering throughout the entire building. The barely visible sunlight makes all the glass inside the car look like jewels.

"I guess I ruin a lot of things but at least you can fix this!" I yell at the top of my lungs, knowing she can hear me.

I walk over to the car and get in. As soon as both feet left the road he drove.

It was an awkward car. I guess Greyson felt sorry because he was driving well over the speed limit. If you look outside the window right now you would see nothing but streaks of color. We literally made it home in less than 10 minutes. It is a miracle that the police did not see our invisible race.

I got out of the car without waiting for him. I started to shake once I got out. With no food and anger and anxiety in me all I wanted to do right now is be in my room.

I start walking towards the front door past the cherry blossom bushes and all the decorations. The rails have little holiday lights, and the stairs are littered with Santa themed gnomes. On the porch is a typical 2 chair sitting area with a splash of holiday cheer. I move my hand towards the doorknob but before a fingertip touches it, it blows open.

Greyson is not looking at me but instead at the ground. I feel bad. He did not mean for any of that to happen. He never did. Like me, we both sometimes put too much faith into the wrong people. People have put faith into us, and it seems reasonable to do the same, but we never got it right. 

I walk inside a very suburban 2 story house. I run upstairs and walk into my room, finally having a bit of privacy.

My room is my sanctuary. It is like the place understands my true feelings and gives what I need to feel good. All I need right now is a bed and a cold drink. It may be cold outside but that does not mean that the heater needs to be on blast. I grab my bottle from my nightstand and chug it, finishing it in one sip. I rest on the bed and lay there quietly for a bit. I still feel hot though. I get up and turn on the fan, but it still does not help. I lay back down and feel my eyes close.

I eventually just take off my shirt and lay down like that. Once the cold air hits the sweat on my torso, I feel a bit better. My heart finally feels like it is resting, and my breathing finally eases. Finally, my eyes are tired of the weight of the lids and eventually it closes itself, sending me to a deep slumber.

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