Page 31 of The Baller

I’d been seeing Doctor Jessops since I was fourteen, when life as the youngest daughter of a senator and the deputy director of the C.I.A. became a lot. Too much, almost.

I had two highly driven parents, two competitive older brothers, both of whom were top of their classes and heading to Princeton and Yale, who made everything they did seem so easy.

And then there was me.

I didn’t want to go into politics or public service, or law school. Who could blame me when all I’d known was how stressful it was, how much time it took you away from your family? I’d wanted to stay home and read, or hang out withmy friends and go to the movies. I wanted to date a boy.

Istillwanted to do those things.

But back then, I couldn’t articulate it without feeling like a total failure, so I never bothered trying. I couldn’t bear the thought of disappointing my parents when all they talked about was how proud they were of my brothers.

Doctor Jessops helped me climb out of the hole I’d dug for myself. She helped me communicate what I wanted, and taught me how to speak up; something – to my surprise – my parents fully supported. Slowly, I started enjoying life. I went to the movies with my friends, I stayed home and hung out with my family. I made the track team at school, and took my golden retriever, Mr. Snuggles, on long runs. I read every book I could. I studied hard because I’d decided I wanted to major in English literature at Georgetown.

And I briefly dated a boy.

At the time, my mom was Senator for Pennsylvania, though behind the scenes she was preparing herself for the run to become the presidential nominee for the next election. My dad was working on something that kept him from home, and my brothers were away at school.

I was falling in love… or I thought I was.

I’d met him one afternoon when Millie and I had looked around Georgetown; he’d been assigned to guide us on a tour. He was funny, smart, and oh so good-looking. We laughed along as he showed us around the campus, and even though there were fifteen potential other students with us, it was like he was talking to me, and me alone.

At the end of the tour he’d asked for my number, and I was only too happy to give it to him.

Our dates started small; a walk along the Potomac here, a burger in a cute Georgetown diner there. He’d kiss me andtell me how he couldn’t wait for me to attend Georgetown so we could be together. It didn’t take me long to know I wanted to lose my virginity to him.

A couple of weeks later, it happened.

Looking back, I should have read the signs. I should have noticed the bright red flags being waved at me from every direction; the busy excuses when I asked to meet his friends; the insistence that I never come to campus or his dorm; the cheap hotel room with a crappy bed and barely put together furniture.

It was over in a matter of minutes; missing the hearts and rainbows everyone talked about. In fact, it had been kind of painful, mostly uncomfortable, and entirely unsettling. Instead of feeling all warm and glowy, a ball of anxiety quickly burned acid through my stomach.

He never commented on the cute underwear I’d spent hours searching for and bought especially for the occasion. He never told me I was beautiful. And the second it was over, he jumped out of bed to get dressed. He left me at the entrance of the hotel, with a quick peck on the cheek and told me he had to rush to class. Confusion overwhelmed me, and he’d already turned the corner before I realized that was a lie.

It had been a Saturday afternoon, there were no classes.

I managed to hold it together long enough to find Millie before I totally crumbled. There was nothing she could say to console me. She didn’t need to tell me I’d never hear from him again. I already knew.

My heart shattered into smithereens.

I saw Doctor Jessops three times a week for the month after that. My parents didn’t know how to make it better. My dad was apoplectic his little girl was so broken, and my brothers swore revenge.

But everyone got their heart broken by a guy, right?

Gradually I felt better, everyone continued to live their lives, and we went back to normal. I hung out with my friends, we went on a family vacation to Martha’s Vineyard, and caught as many Phillies home games as we could.

But then my mom became the presidential nominee.

A month later, the photos began to make the rounds. Photos I didn’t give permission for, and a video I didn’t know had been recorded. The most private, intimate moment of my life released for the world to see by someone I had trusted.

Grainy images of me wearing the cute underwear with the little blue hearts I’d bought especially forhimwere on the internet just long enough for everyone to see before my dad had every computer hacker employed by the C.I.A. find them, and destroy them.

But it was too late. My mom’s political enemies had seen them and rubbed their hands with glee.

Media outlets called me a slut, and my mom a terrible parent. Sunday morning political shows debated on how she would ever be able to run a country when she couldn’t even control her own kids.

Up until then, even at my lowest point when I couldn’t figure out my life and feared I’d never live up to the legacy of my family, I’d never wanted to die. I’d just wanted to disappear. But that day, the day those pictures flooded the internet and I had to relive the worst day of my life, the day my broken heart resurfaced and I realized how badly I’d screwed up by putting my trust into someone else, was the day I wanted my life to be over.

Like they sensed it, I was never left alone; my parents, my brothers, Millie… someone was always with me. Even Mr. Snuggles stayed glued to my side. I drifted through my days until my medication kicked in, and I started to feel a little less like I was pushing my way through a thick, sticky thundercloud.

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