“I don’t hate myself,” she whispered as she stare at her fingertips.  The purple nail polish she had painted on them mere hours ago was already chipped and faded.  In her entire life, she could not remember a time where she had not scuffed her freshly painted nails almost immediately. 

“Ok.  It is not hate, then.  What is it you do feel?”  Her therapist questioned, mocha his brown eyes peering at her through horn rimmed glasses.  “You have mentioned feeling like this before.”

She lifted her gaze and looked at him, her green eyes studying his mocha ones as she debated what to say.  Debated which parts of her journey she should share.  After she opened and closed her mouth a few times, she finally forced the words out.  “Longing.  I long to be more, to do more, to feel more.  I long to look better.  I long to have more talent, more pride, more drive.  Just more of everything.”  She gestured to herself almost sadly.  “And less of what I am.”  She whispered in a tiny voice, lowering her green eyes to her chipped purple nails once again.

“And what stops you from achieving this longing you are describing?”  Her therapist asked her, his voice calm and persuasive.  When she made no move to answer, he spoke a bit more sternly.  “Trista.  What stops you from achieving this longing?”

She did not even bother raising her eyes to his.  Instead she shrugged her shoulders, and shifted until she could sit more comfortably.  The chair she sat in practically swallowed her, its bright vibrant red color a poor choice for a room that often saw the saddest parts of peoples minds.

She had grown to hate not only that chair, but everything it had come to represent in her life.  The lonely, the hatred, and the desire to never have to come back and speak to Dr. Davis ever again.  He always peered at her with eyes that never seemed to quite understand her.  Eyes that tried to peer into her soul, but only succeeded in scratching the surface.

“I think our time is up.”  Trista finally said after the silence drug on for a long uncomfortable silence.  “I can see myself out.  No need to get up.”  She stood quickly, her faded black sneakers barely making a sound on the plush khaki carpet on the floor.

“We meet again next week don’t we?”  Dr. Davis called out to her retreating back, and she paused with her hand on the door knob. 

“We meet again every week for next six months, three weeks, and four days.”  She forced the words out, trying to keep the bitter dregs of them locked behind the anger that was always trying to break free. 

“See you next week then Trista.”  She did not even bother to say goodbye, simply trudged out of the room, down the hall, and into the waiting room where her caretaker sat reading an old book that was carried to almost every appointment.

“Trista!”  Sarah called out, her voice a sing song of joy and pride.  Sarah had been with Trista for almost five years, had been the one to find her on that day.  Now Sarah came to every therapy appointment, dr.s appointment, and every errand Trista would ever need to go on.

“I see you Sarah.”  Trista responded dryly as she wrapped the over-sized hoodie she wore around her tighter, almost as though it was her shield against the beaming smile Sarah wore.

“Are you ready to go home?  Did you want to go to lunch first?  Or shopping?  It has been forever since we went shopping.”  As Sarah spoke, she ushered an unwilling Trista out the door and towards the waiting car. 

“You don’t have to go shopping with me, or out to lunch with me Sarah.  I know it was your day off.  This appointment today was not supposed to happen.”  Trista muttered as her cheeks darkened with shame. 

The over-sized hoodie she wore did not only cover her body, but the new scars that were healing on her wrists. 

“I am here because I want to be here Trista.  Never forget that.”  Although the actions made her uncomfortable, Trista did not wrench her own hands out of Sarah’s, understanding that it was a moment of comrade-re that Sarah was trying to build. “So, lunch, shopping, or home?”  Sarah asked again, the joyous note firmly back in her voice.

Home?  Trista thought the word as she walked towards the car.  Getting inside of it was almost too much effort to bear.  Everything had been to much effort to bare lately.  All she wanted to do was go home, curl up into a ball, and sleep until the world ended.  As she opened her mouth to say just that, she saw Sarah’s concerned expression, and forced the words back down.

“Lunch and some shopping sounds nice, if you are up for it.”  Sarah clapped her hands together in joy, excited that Trista had agreed, if only for the moment, to live outside of her bedroom for a few hours.