Monday
I sit in a well-decorated office of a woman. The room is covered in Ph.D. certificates and college degrees. My two “guards” stand outside the room and my psychologist, Reina Bloom, stares at her computer with her legs crossed.
“So, Gianna, I see you have a file already. You’ve been to therapy before?”
“Yes, when I was ten for things that had happened in my past,” I start to pick at my jeans and she nods in response.
“Before we get into your past, I’m going to have to ask you some routine questions. So, you’re 18, work at the restaurant Aqua, and on your stress level, you circled six. Why did you choose that?” She tucks her hair behind her ear and gets ready to write what I have to say.
I shrug, still playing with the thread I pulled out of my jeans, “This whole case and being u
