And here I am again. Only this time it isn't raining anymore. Instead the sun is trying to shine through the only two clouds in the sky. Ironic, no? There's nothing in the sky but a smattering of a few clouds, and the sun has been stuck behind two of them for the past hour.

I look around the office and remember the last time I was here. A week ago. Was it really only a week ago? I don't have long to think about it because just as the carpet begins to dance and spin again (much to my annoyance) Dr. Jordan steps into the room.

Steps. Yes, that's exactly what it is. He doesn't walk in, nor does he forcefully swagger in. He takes calm steps, easy like. He knows that if he walked anymore forcefully he'd frighten the small creature I'd become. He didn't know it last time I saw him. Which is why he wasn't quite sure what to make of the first time we met. But after that, and after meeting with the doctors I gave him to contact, he knows. Not that it was hard to figure out after last weeks session, but it has been verified for him now. Verified by people with credibility, men with ID tags and diplomas from Johns Hopkins and Harvard. And until those men can confirm I am indeed only a fragment of what I was, until Dr. Jordan can feel safe in the comfort the "experts" can give him, Dr. Jordan only thought I was cranky that day. Or that I was there against whatever will I had left.

No, after the course of the past week it has been confirmed by various representatives from the fine medical institutions our country boasts that Dr. Jordan can rest easy. That I am not in fact someone with a healthy dose of self pity and am not wasting his time in his publication race for numerous journals. For in me he has found someone peculiar. Someone with a laundry list of psychosis's, all of his case studies rolled into one. And because of this, because he finally knows for sure just how valuable I am to him and just how precarious I may be, he steps into the room carefully.

Make no mistake, Dr. Jordan sits in the large leather study chair in front of his desk, wearing his power suit trying to make it appear comfortable with the jacket hung on his coat rack by the door. With his left leg over his right knee (the socks showing a little under the hem of his pants of course) and the notebook he picks up from the table next to him, it is only too apparent who's in control here. While I supply him with invaluable material, I still need him more than he needs me. He can find someone else. Maybe not someone so completely perfect for his research, but someone else nonetheless. And yet he is the only doctor that the others have all agreed might be able to help me. And the mere thought of him sending me back to my empty apartment without his help, the mere idea of him rejecting me, makes me sweat with the realization that maybe I won't ever be fixed. Maybe I wont' ever be all right. And if I'm not all right, I won't be normal. And if I'm not normal, I can't possibly be successful. It's a fear pounded into kids by the age of six: there are those who are normal, and there are those who...aren't. And those who are normal grow up to be successful and beautiful and happy. You don't want to grow up and not be normal. It's a lesson learned in daycare, and enforced through high school. To the point that if it is even slightly false, the fear is still there and cannot be ignored.

And that is why I am here today. Seeing Dr. Jordan. Because I am truly not normal. And I live daily scared of what that means.

"Emma, I'm glad to see you again." He says it with a smile. A smile almost sincere, almost caring, but the glimmer in his eye, the excitement that I'm there, is what belies him.

"Hi." I smile. And I smile genuinely because I've seen the diplomas on his wall and the large medical books on his shelves, and I know he is successful. And I know he is normal.

"How has your week been? Last time I saw you, you didn't talk much. You seemed rather preoccupied."

Preoccupied? You mean while I was trying to figure out how exactly it is your carpet can dance and trying very hard to not watch your face and trying to explain why i can't touch a majority of common household items. You mean like that, preoccupied? I suppose I was.

"I'm sorry about that. I just don't always know what to say."

"Well, you mentioned you called me to discuss your depression. Is that how you still feel?"

"I suppose. I mean, this week hasn't been so bad, but I know it can't stay like this."

"Why not?"

"Because it never does. Sure, for a week or two, maybe three, I'll be fine. Happy almost, even. But then that's just erased and I'm reminded of how alone I actually am."

"I see."

Until this point I haven't heard much scritching and scratching on his pad. He must have most of the notes he needs from my other doctors. The ones before him, who tried but couldn't quite finish what they had started. I wonder if he's going to mention them. I know he saw them, talked with them because at least two of them let me know he had already. But maybe he's going to let me come out with it myself. Some sort of pseudo self exploxploration or something.

"Do you have any idea why you've been feeling depressed? Why you feel alone?" No. If I knew why, I could fix it. And I can't. I can't fix it myself, that's why I was convinced to call you.

"No."

"All right. You mentioned something about your sister last week. Is she your only sibling?"

Ah. So that's the route he'll take. Start with my family, make sure there isn't some murderous psychotic mixed up with us, hidden away. Making sure that it is, in fact, a happy family.

"No. I have a younger brother also. I'm the oldest."

"Are you close with either of them - your siblings?"

"With my sister, yes. But with my brother not really. He's eleven years younger than me, so I don't really know him all that well."

"And your parents?"

"Growing up my dad was what you would call 'emotionally unavailable', and my mom tried to make up the slack for that. But then it just ended up being that she stressed herself out too much trying to hold our family together."

"She left?"

"No. She died. A year ago."

"I'm sorry." Thanks. That helps, a lot.

"Me too. She was the only parent I felt I had as a kid."

"How's your dad now?"

"He's ok I guess. He's gotten better. We talk more now, starting to form some sort of relationship. But it's hard ya know? I mean, his job took him half way across the country after my mom died, so I don't get to see him much. Only on the compulsory family holidays. My sister is still close by, I guess that's helped. I know she took it really hard, last year...I tried to be there for her. But I could hardly be there for myself. It just helped knowing some family was close by though, someone who I could go see, physically, and not wait three hours for a plane."

Dr. Jordan just nodded his head, looking at me. Waiting for more. I didn't know what more he wanted though. That was pretty much the whole messy history of my family.

He senses I'm not going to say anything else, so he finally asks something else: "When did you notice your depression begin? Is it possible it's because of your mom's passing?" I hate that. "Passing". Passing makes it sound so much more voluntary, so much more peaceful. Sure my mom didn't exactly die violently. Her heart exploded one afternoon while she was preparing dinner. Fried chicken - it was Josh's favorite. The doctors said she died instantly almost, with little pain and suffering. I suppose in a small way that is comforting. But it definitely wasn't voluntary. When I think about how much she's missing out on now. Josh's graduation, her first grandchildren, her daughter's wedding, or her other daughter getting better. So much that she still wanted to see and do, I know it was in no way voluntary. Passing makes it just sound like your skirting the real issue. She didn't give up a turn in some board game, she didn't speed by some slow ass car on the highway - she died. Say it like it is. Don't sugar coat it, trying to make it easier for me to hear. Cause no matter how you phrase it, no matter how someone might try to make it easier it's the same thing. She's gone and she's not coming back - as cliche as that is. I've learned to live past it. To live without her as unfair as it is that I even have to.

"No. I've been feeling like this for a few years now." Thing is, he knew that. He has my records right there in front of him - my first doctor's visit was nine years ago and two months. And one week. My mom was plenty alive to see me go in and out of doctor's offices, waiting to be normal.

Contact Prologue Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 4