Page 28 of Until the Ribbon Breaks

As she moves around her space, touching everything, she responds, “Maxi.”

What a travesty to be named after a feminine hygiene product.

“You can call me Max, though.” She turns to face me and leans against the wall. “What’re you in for?”

My last roommate didn’t speak—like, ever. It annoyed me to no end, but, right now, I kind of miss her. Even in a place like this, a place where we’re all messed up in one way or another, I still want people to see me as normal. It’s never easy having to admit the truth—that I’ve been diagnosed with major depressive disorder.

“Well?” she pushes.

Knowing it’s only a matter of time before she, along with everyone else, finds out during group therapy, I tell her, “Depression.”

“What type? PDD, MDD, bipolar, seasonal affective—”

“MDD,” I answer, cutting off her rambling, and her eyes bulge slightly as if she’s in awe.

“How bad?”

Subconsciously, I tug my left sleeve down over my hand, gripping the fabric between my fingers and palm.

She notices the movement. “You tried killing yourself?”

Man, she’s blunt.

Heat slithers up my neck, but I’m saved from having to answer when someone taps on the open door. “Harlow?” Marcus steps in. “Dr. Amberg is ready to see you for your intake assessment.”

As I slip on my shoes, Max asks the nurse, “Did you talk to him about the Colace?”

“I already told you that he denied your request.”

“But I’m constipated,” she whines. “Tell him that I haven’t pooped in four days and my stomach is killing me.”

“Your stomach hurts because you need to eat.”

“I have been.”

“A few sips of Pediasure isn’t enough.”

When I stand to follow him out the door, she hollers in agitation, “I want my Colace!”

“There weren’t any non-verbals you could’ve put me with?”

“Not this time, kid.”

Marcus is one of the more decent nurses here. During my last stay, he would often sneak me candy bars when he’d come in for his shifts. Let’s face it, the food here blows, so the treats were much appreciated and made me feel a little more human.

“Have a seat,” he tells me when we enter the administrative wing. “I’ll let him know you’re here.”

I take a seat, the same seat I used to take twice a week when I was last here. Ever since I was deemed sane enough to live beyond these walls, I have my sessions at Dr. Amberg’s secondary office that’s on the other side of town and closer to my house. If I had to come back here for my appointments, I’d go crazy.

Bad choice of words.

“Harlow, come on in,” my doctor says from the open doorway to his office.

The room still smells the same as it did before. It’s a mixture of cinnamon and leather, reminding me of the spiced pinecones all the stores sell during the holidays.

When I situate myself on the plush couch, he sits adjacent to me in his oversized chair with my file in his hand. “Have you had a chance to meet some of the residents?”

“I don’t plan on staying long.”

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