"Read more. Write more."
That's what Doctor said.
Doctor is my therapist.

He says, "You are not alone. Many have felt this way before, and many have also thought themselves mad. And that's why I'm here. You are not alone."

I think
It's *******.

Doctor doesn't know what he's talking about.

Read more? Write more?

How can I read when my eyes touch a page and then fall to the ground?
How can I write when none of the words I think can make it past my mouth?

How can anything be normal, be fine?

Doctor says I'm not alone, but I find that hard to believe.

"Doctor," I say, rubbing my sore crown, "no matter how often you say that, I still feel alone."

He nods his head. "And what of your friends?"

I shake mine. "They don't like me."

"And what of your husband?"

"Doesn't love me."

"And what of your parents?"

"Don't need me -- they have my sister."

Doctor nods and glances at the clock. "Well, our time is almost up. Any last thoughts?"

I don't change my gaze, which rests on the cactus plant sitting above the fake fireplace.

"No."