Page 128 of Beneath the Hood

“Youpayme to do that.”

“No, Sierra. I pay you to manage my schedule. To keep things organized. To be my right-hand woman.Notto make me feel like nothing is ever good enough. Like my flaws are worth ignoring, like it’s worth sacrificing fuckingeverythingto make it to the top.” Fury burns through me, my words sharp as I hiss them down the line.

“That used to beyourdream, too.”

“Yeah, well… dreams change.”

“So that’s it? You’re just done with me?”

“That’s it.” I smile as I breathe out the words. “I’m just done.”

I hang up the phone, twisting to face my father as he leans against the wall, spinning car keys around his finger. “You ready, honey?”

Sucking in a deep breath, I nod, fear chomping down on my insides at the unknown. “Yeah, I’ll meet you out there, I just... I have something I need to do real quick.”

He nods, walking away, and I turn, staring down at my phone like it’s about to reach out and strangle me to death.

Who knows, maybe it will.

I place the phone in its stand and press record, my chest whirling with anxiety.

For the first few seconds, I’m silent, staring at my unfiltered, makeup-free face, wondering what the hell I’m doing. Bile surges into my esophagus and I close my eyes.

One. Two. Three.

“Hi, everyone.” I smile into the camera, even as dread snakes down my spine and wraps around my hips. “You’re not used to seeing me like this.” I gesture to my face. “Honestly,I’mnot used to seeing me like this.” I glance down at my fists clenched in my lap, and back up to the screen, my heartbeat pounding in my ears. “I’ve been lying to you. You see, I’ve spentyearsshowing you all my perfects. Not letting you see what happens behind the screen. And you deserve better than that.” A tear drips down my cheek. “Ideserve better than that.”

Blowing out a shaky breath, I continue. “So, I guess this is my apology. I’m sorry for making you think I’m something I’m not. Spoiler alert: the internet isn’t reality. What youseeany of us do is edited. Set up. It’sbullshit.”

My fingernails cut into my palms, my head growing dizzy. “The truth is, I’m a wreck. And maybe someday soon, I’ll find the courage to share more of that with you. But first, I need to take care of me.” My voice cracks. “Thank you from the bottom of my heart for all of your support, I truly cherish every single second I’ve spent getting to know you, and I’m sorry that I let the genuine beauty of people connecting over the internet turn into something so... processed and fake.” I lift my eyes to the ceiling. “So, for now, this is goodbye. Hopefully, when you see me again, I’ll be a better version of myself.”

With shaky hands, I snatch up my phone, uploading the video before I lose the nerve. Before I break from the thought of people peering inside and not liking what they see.

* * *

Cognitive-behavioral therapy.

I’ve been at Turning Pointe for twenty days, and my life now revolves around psychotherapy. My psychiatrist, Dr. Janice Dean, sits me down every day and we work through the behaviors, thoughts, and feelings that accompany my urges. My issues with food and exercise. My panic. My need for control.

When I first arrived, I was poked and prodded, tested for thyroid issues—which apparently can create similar symptoms to panic attacks—and asked to fill out a questionnaire. A veryinvasivequestionnaire that made me feel like ants were digging holes under my skin and crawling around through my veins.

Turns out, I have OCD.Who knew?Obsessive, irrational thoughts that spiral into compulsive behavior. In my case, excessive exercise and extreme control over the routines in my life, which lends itself to Orthorexia. A type of eating disorder that I didn’t even know existed.

But tackling my disorders are the least of the hard work.

It’s the recreation of my panic attacks that make me feel like curling up in a ball and begging for death. But still, I show up every day, and we work through it.

A safe space where we purposely recreate my triggers, causing panic to happen in a repetitive manner so Dr. Dean can walk me through the symptoms. Force me to face the root of the cause. And every day we take away more of the fear, so I can learn how to cope when they hit.

It’s intense. Grueling. Masochistic. And it involves a level of self-reflection that I spent years trying to avoid.

But I’m here. And I’m doing the work.

Iwantto be better.

When I’m not in therapy, I’m meeting with a dietician. One who works with me on building a healthy relationship with food, so I stop associating my happiness to what goes into my body. I keep a daily affirmation journal too, and that combined with the behavioral therapy to retrain how I think of myself is… a lot.

Every morning, I take an anti-depressant. It’s not a miracle cure, but it helps curb the darkness that threatens to swallow me whole.

---