Perfectly Damaged

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.”

“And what is that?” My voice muffles against my pillow.

“This.” She pulls at my sheets.

I pull back. “Leave me alone.”

“No. You’re getting up. You’re going to take a shower, and we’re getting out of here.”

“No.” I grip the sheets again, tugging them a bit harder this time around.

“Jenna,” she hisses.

“No!” I spit back. “I’m going back to bed. I’m tired. I don’t want to do anything.”

She moves around on the bed. Then she jumps off, which is such a relief. Good. I’m glad I was able to—

Oh. No. She. Didn’t.

She thrusts at my hipbone and I fall out of bed, my ass making a loud thumping noise as soon as it makes contact with the hardwood floor. She just tossed me off the bed. I’m pissed. Beyond furious, I jerk up, untangling myself from the sheets. Once I’m free from the fabric, I shoot a death glare her way. If looks could kill, she’d be one dead chick right about now. “You bitch!”

Charlie grips her hipbones and matches my glare from across the bed. “You can do better than that. I’ve been called worse.” She stretches out her right arm, pointing in the direction of my bathroom door. “Now, I’m going to need you to take a shower. Throw on a bikini. We’re going to relax by the pool and talk.”

“I don’t want to. What part of that don’t you understand?”

She straightens her back and relaxes her eyes. “Jenna, I truly don’t give a fuck. We’re going swimming for the following reasons: a) I’m a hell of a good friend and I’m concerned about you; b) I’m hot as all hell from this ninety-degree weather; and c) my pussy is sweating and needs a dip in the pool. So go, now!”

“I hate you and you’re disgusting.”

“Mmkay. You can hate me all the way to the pool. Let’s get going. I’ll be right here, waiting for you.”

Humph. I storm into the bathroom.

It’s hot as hell out here. I’m used to working under the sun, but today I could fry an egg on the fucking concrete. We started work on the McDaniel project four days ago. Between me and the other workers, it’s been successful. The foundation of the guesthouse is almost done, and I suspect by Monday we can begin the framing. With ten-hour shifts, our team has been known to beat its deadline.