Why I Bought a Diamond Necklace for My Therapist

it’s tough to have a mind that’s constantly trying to kill you.

On Fridays, I go to see my therapist.

I wait in the waiting room while she is wrapping up with the girl who washes her hands exactly ninety eight times a day. I roll my eyes.

Who the hell even does that?

I sneer at the offering of stale tea. I don’t want it. I’m not here to drink tea and chat with a friend.

Oh shut up, I tell myself. Say thank you and drink the damn tea while your therapist wraps up with the damn girl who just washes her hands too damn much.

Was it ninety times a day?

They call my name. My time to shine. What should I talk about this time?

I could tell her that my day went okay. I didn’t listen to that song I hate five times just because I feel like something bad will happen if I don’t. I didn’t twist my piercing exactly three times before leaving the house. I didn’t get tremors when I called a cab to get here.

But I would be lying, and she would know.

Instead, I sit on the chair assigned to me and hand her a box neatly wrapped with shiny, silver paper.

What is it? she asks.

A gift, I say. My voice is shaky as I swallow back my tears.

Why a necklace? she asks me. I know from experience

It hides the marks well, I say. It hides the marks.