"I have to go." I picked up my bad, hugging Mum real quick. "The appointment is in a half-hour."

"Hurry, we have to go to the food shelf as soon as you get back." Mother said, dried mascara taking flight through the air as she blinked twice.

I pull up my baggy shorts and open the front door, leaving the air-conditioned heaven into the hell outside. The apartment door slams, locking because of Mom's severe agoraphobia. My headphones rested in my ears, pounding notes and lullabies into the drums. My knees only brush lightly as I walk, my muscles ache. I just wanna sleep. I'm exhausted. I reach the office, where sessions take place, and pull out my headphones as I refill my water bottle at the fountain. So far today I've had 200 calories and it's 2pm. Wonderful.

The coffee and creamer (20) and the cereal I was forced (small bowl=180) churn in the pit of my stomach (=200) as I walk to the psychologist's office. I really shouldn't have eaten that. I feel I'm about to upchuck. Ew.

"Oh, hello, Ivorie." Said Dr. Ridley. She motioned to a chair. "Please sit."

I sit in a chair, tapping my foot inconspicuously in anxiety. Ridley pulls out the barely-written-in pink note pad. By now, we should be at our third notebook, but I never speak. They don't need to know my business: Especially her. I never wanted to come here, but I'm forced to.. An opaque mist falls between Ivorie and Ridley. Time to pretend to listen and nod/shake my head for 40 minutes.

"How was this past week?" Dr. Ridley asks, clicking her ballpoint pen to write. There's no point in it anyway, I'm not going to speak. I'm not going to speak.