The school shrink eyed me with frustration across the table. I eyed him

back, equally exasperated. Once again, we had reached an impasse. “Well, since

you’re not willing to cooperate with me, then why don’t you fill out this packet for

the remainder of our time?” he asked pleasantly.
  
            I glanced furtively at the clock to the left. I was missing English (my favorite

class) and today’s lesson was discussing my favorite book: Jane Eyre. “Look,” I

began again impatiently, “How many times do I have to tell you? I didn’t--”
      
             He cut me off with the complacent air of a man who deals with difficult

teenagers all the time. It didn’t improve my mood at all. “I won’t have any of this

nonsense anymore, Bridget,” he said. “The best way to recovery is to deal with the

truth.”
   
             Recovery? Recovery?! There was nothing to recover from! At a loss,

I stared at him helplessly. Taking my speechlessness as an opportunity, he shoved

the big packet across the table. “Just do it,” he pleaded. Sighing, I glanced down

at it.
                      Q1. Do you consider yourself a happy person?
           
              Disbelieving, I scanned the page further:
                      
                      Q2. Do you keep a journal in which to let out your
                                          
                                                    thoughts and feelings?
                     
                      Q3. Name a few things in the world that are  beautiful/enjoyable.
                                  
                                       It  can be anything, like nature or a personal hobby.
                      
                       Q4. In your opinion, do other people get emotionally hurt when
                                
                                       the people they love hurt themselves?

            On and on it went. This is ridiculous, I wanted to scream. The

thought of me answering these “therapy” questions was actually pretty funny, if

the current situation had been laughable. I certainly wasn’t laughing.

            Mr. Psychoanalysis didn’t seem to be letting up, though, so feeling more

foolish by the minute, I started writing. Yes, I’m a happy person. No, I do not

keep a journal. I like reading and watching sunsets. Er, yeah.

           I wasn’t done when the bell rang, and I sprang up ready to ditch this

nonsense, but the blasted shrink made me take the papers with me. I could only

imagine what my mother’s face would look like when she found it. She looked

through all of my stuff now. Nothing was private anymore. I stuffed them in my

backpack, trying not to be seen sidling out of his office.

           If undergoing mental therapy was bad enough, then the stares I got were

much, much worse. My story had spread around my small high school like a forest

fire, and eager eyes now followed me in every hallway, in every classroom, in every

bathroom. The crowd parted like the red sea for me. I felt contaminated.

           Finally I got to Math class, ten minutes late. “Sorry,” I gasped as I opened

the door, forgetting about my troubles for the moment. I hated being late. I braced

myself for the scolding; Miss Henshaw didn’t like latecomers either.

           I wasn’t prepared for her reaction. “It’s okay, dear,” she said a little sadly.

For a moment I was bewildered. Then I understood. Of course, I thought

bitterly. Unstable people are let off the hook. I slumped into my seat, trying to

ignore the thirty pairs of eyes turned around in their seats to gawk at me at the

back of the room.

         How had this happened?  That was the dazed question that had

surfaced in my mind every day since Monday. Before last Saturday, I had been a

perfectly contented part of the student body’s background, blending in perfectly

with the backdrop. I only attracted the attention of my friends. Now, I was some

kind of morbid celebrity. No one looked at my face anymore, just the bandage that

was marking me out for something I wasn’t.
                                     
                                   And it was all because of an accident.

           “Bridget? Bridget?  Number twenty-one, please?”

I’d been daydreaming. “Wha—Oh! Er--” Embarrassed, I searched the book

frantically for an answer.

           Miss Henshaw just looked at me, pity saturating her gaze, and went on to

someone else. Furious with myself, I opened my notebook to the right page.

Slipping off into La-la-land was not going to help my case. I’d show them all I was

a normal, functioning human being, just like everyone else! “Number thirty,

anybody?” Eagerly I raised my hand high.

            That was a mistake. The white bandage on my right wrist shone like a neon

sign in the light, screaming, “Look at me! Look at me!” Cringing at the stares, I

switched hands hastily. Someone snickered.

              My face red as a tomato, I muttered the answer almost inaudibly and

didn’t dare open my mouth after that. Maybe I should become left-handed,

I thought sarcastically. I wanted to bang my head against the desk, like they do in

cartoons, but I resentfully supposed that that too would fall into the category of

“suicide.”

              The bell rang once again, signaling another stage of my torture: the walk

to my locker. People looked at me like I was a time bomb, ready to blow up at any

moment.

             As I rummaged through the chaos of my messy locker looking for my

French textbook, a voice I hadn’t heard in almost a week called my name softly. I

whirled around, hope flaring in my chest. There was Jess, a tall girl with long brown

hair, my best friend since 1st grade. She hadn’t spoken to me since Monday.

             My hope disappeared as I looked at her. She clearly still didn’t believe my

side of the story. “Come to stare at Exhibit A?” I sneered, slamming my locker

viciously. People stared even more.  

            She crossed her arms across her chest. “You have no right to be angry. You

lied to me. Why?” she demanded. “I have every right to be angry when my best

friend doesn’t even trust me,” I retorted. A spasm of pain crossed her face, and

instantly I was sorry. “Jess, can’t you believe me?” I pleaded. “It was an accident.”

            “You don’t have to lie through your teeth to me like that! I’m your friend!”

she burst out, angry tears streaming down her face. The entire hallway had come

to a standstill. It was easier to ignore when I was glaring at Jess. “It’s not a lie!” I

cried. “I was cutting a pear and the knife slipped.” Passersby flinched at the taboo

word.

            “On your wrist? Don’t give me that bull,” she said coldly, the tears

disappearing. Now I was on the verge of tears, and I fought hard to keep them

away. I wanted to scream.

          “Ooo, look! It’s the emo girl.” Michelle Cappella and her herd of color-

coordinated preppy followers swept by us, giggling maliciously. Michelle gave me a

scornful look over her shoulder before they rounded the corner. I gritted my teeth.

            My appearance certainly didn’t help my case, either. I had short, choppy

black hair, horn-rimmed glasses, very pale skin, and a love for death metal. But I

was happy. I loved life (though it had definitely taken a turn for the worse)

and had no intention to die at the age of 15.
                                 
                                 Why couldn’t even my best friend see that?

             Jess looked at me stonily. “If you’re not even going to be honest with me,

then…well—friends don’t do that.” she turned on her heel and stalked off. I wanted

to burst into tears, but I couldn’t, not when everyone in the crowded hall expected

me to.

             My best friend hated my guts, I was being held captive by a shrink, I

wasn’t allowed near my own kitchen cutlery anymore, and the whole community

thought I was a danger to myself.
                                             
                                           I was trapped in a nightmare.