This story is not about me or anyone in particular, but everyone who reads it will be able

to relate to it in some way. This piece is definitely not meant to be diagnostic or hold any sort of

authority. This was meant to express the differing experiences of college students, especially

those that struggle with mental illness. Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD) specifically stuck

out in my mind because those with this disorder—as with many psychiatric disorders—are often

misjudged, stigmatized, or even fetishized. In reality, people with BPD are sons and daughters,

students and co-workers, friends and lovers. Each has their own story about their diagnosis, and

our narrator Sadie’s story is unique to her.

I chose the Velveeta cookbook because I thought it would be very interesting to play on

the mother/daughter dynamic, and domestic chores like cooking have historically been left to

women. Holding the cookbook, I couldn’t help but imagine who it had belonged to. Did they

have children? What was their relationship with them like? Across every time and culture, food

brings us together. I couldn’t help but wonder, “What if the very act of cooking together was the

last thing holding them together?” This story embodies what it means to wish you were better, to

question your identity, to be on the cusp of adulthood, to feel like the rug is being pulled out

from under you, to clutch to things and people that make you feel worthwhile. Despite her

diagnosis, Sadie feels things every college student feels—she just expresses them in different

ways. This story is meant to take each reader one step closer to radical acceptance.
 We Will be Okay

The last time I saw my father, I was five years old. I had spent the whole morning in the

kitchen with Mom, cooking tomato strata out of her Velveeta cookbook. I loved cracking the

eggs open, trying to keep the yolk whole; but every time without fail, the yolk would break and

run into the bowl like tears streaming down your face so fast you don’t have the chance to wipe

them away.

I was too little to reach the counter by myself, so Mom would always put down a small

stepstool, calling me her “tiny helper” and enveloping me into a hug. This particular morning,

however, my father decided to help cook too, and he held me in his arms as I stirred all the

ingredients together, Billy Joel serenading us from our living room stereo.

It doesn’t make sense, then, why he left. I know they had been fighting, and Mom says he

always drank so much he probably didn’t even remember he had a daughter; but how can that be

true, when he was there holding me? I can’t remember all the details, and Mom says that’s for

the best and that she wishes she didn’t have to be reminded of him every time she looked at me.

Me and Mom, we don’t usually get along when we talk. So usually, we don’t talk. We

cook. It’s just easier to do, to keep our hands busy, than to say anything to each other. Mom has

so many cookbooks, but her favorite has always been the Velveeta. “A little bit of cheese cheers

everyone up,” she’d say in her sing-song voice. And every time, without fail, it did.

Today, I start college. I picked the furthest school I could and told Mom I’d see her for

Christmas. I don’t know what to expect. I must’ve read two dozen articles full of advice, but they

all gave the same bullshit answers about avoiding homesickness and staying on top of

homework, which are not, I expect, things I will struggle with.

 Still, I thought it’d be nice to have a piece of home, so I slipped Mom’s Velveeta

cookbook into my bag this morning. By the time she finds out, I’ll be halfway across the country,

and there will be nothing she can do.

***

“‘Chronic feelings of emptiness.’”

If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s drinking. And I mean good as a relative term: I’m a

lightweight, but that makes me more fun to be around. I get drunker faster than everyone else,

which means I get the same buzz for cheaper.

I don’t enjoy drinking. I mean, the last time I got drunk, it wasn’t fun. But then again, it

never really is. I have an incessant need to be the center of attention, and the easiest way for me

to do so is to drink. Lots and lots.

I’ve been in college for almost a semester, and when I’m sober, I’m inexperienced and

boring. But when I drink, I am a party. I’ll do anything anyone says just so they’ll keep talking to

me. My body consumes laughter, attention, looks of disbelief, just like air filling my lungs. How

much can I make them talk about me? The more shocking I am, the better. Feed me validation,

I’ll do anything. Sex, shots, slip of the tongue, “Oh, did I say that?” I won’t stop until I’ll regret

it in the morning. I want to keep them talking about me. When I’m the subject of the

conversation, I feel something.

But when I wake up the next afternoon, the sun encroaching on my room like an

unwanted dream, I ache. I don’t know how to be someone when no one is around. I am not my

own person; I am a collection of everyone around me. And when the party’s over, the pit in my

stomach manifests into its own being, a being that tells me that I am nothing, I am no one, and I

never will be.

 It will always be like this. It will always be like this. It will always be like this.

Oh, it hurts, the twisted knot, ripping through flesh and bone and tearing you apart, limb

by limb, until it’s 3 a.m. and there’s no one to call and you’re screaming because you want to

feel something, anything, but there’s nothing to say because you aren’t anyone when you’re

alone, so you try not to ever be alone, but no one wants to be around a shell of a person because

the pity they feel isn’t a strong enough emotion to keep them around for long.

There’s not enough love in the world that can make you feel like anything more than a

sideshow that people love to laugh at and then thank their god that they aren’t you.

But the alcohol helps a little.

***

It’s already been a week, but everyone already has their established group of friends. My

roommate, Isie, is nice enough, but she is local, and she knows a lot of people from high school.

She invited me to hang out with them this afternoon, but they were intent on talking about

everyone they hated at sixteen, and I have no opinions or stakes in matter, so I quietly excused

myself. I’m not sure they’ve noticed.

The initial orientation period has ended, and it seems like everyone has already picked

their friend groups. Apparently there’s no one left out—at least not that I can see. I guess I

missed the memo, and now it’s too late, and it’s going to be a miserable semester, and it’s all my

fault.

It’s been a week since I talked to Mom. I pull out my phone and call her.

“Did you take my cookbook?” she demands on the first ring.

“Hi, Mom,” I reply.

“Yes, hi. Answer me please.”

 “I’m just calling because I miss you and I love you,” I continue, determined not to give

her the satisfaction.

“Oh, stop that. Did you take it? I know you did.”

“College is great, thanks for asking. I’ve made so many friends. I can’t wait for classes to

start.”

“Sadie, look, I just wanted to cook a special dinner for a special someone tonight, and

you took my means of doing so, so just admit it.”

“Yes, it truly is hard to get enough sleep with all these friends falling at my feet. It’s like

they’re obsessed with me!” I say.

“You ruined my evening, and now you won’t even admit it! I can’t believe I raised such a

selfish daughter.”

“Okay! Yes, I took your fucking cookbook! Jesus Christ, you are relentless. And while

we’re at it, college is a fucking nightmare and I’m miserable. Does that make you happy? I don’t

have a single fucking friend, and I don’t know what I want to study, and I just wanted to make

some fucking Velveeta, is that too much to ask for?” I snap.

There’s a pregnant pause on the other end of the line. Just when I’m about to check if she

hung up on me, she says quietly, “Thank you for admitting it.”

“Fuck off,” I scream and throw my phone across the room.

I climb into bed, hot tears streaming down my face. The sobs spring up, and I’m trying to

control them, but it’s no use. They control me, and it’s all I can do to keep from throwing up.

After twenty minutes of this, my body gives out and I am thrust into a restless sleep. I’m

awoken by the sound of keys jingling in the lock.

I hear my roommate enter, laughing. “Oh shit, I’m sorry. Were you sleeping?” she asks.
 “No,” I roll over to face her, to prove I am awake. “I was just…” My eyes settle on the

tallest boy I’ve ever seen, standing in my doorway.

Isie follows my sightline, and then realizes I don’t know this strange boy standing and

staring at my puffy face. “Oh, Sadie, this is my boyfriend, Adam,” she says. “Is it cool if he

hangs out in our room for a while?”

I just want to sleep. “Yeah, that’s fine!” I say with forced enthusiasm. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Adam says.

“Just give me one second and I’ll get out of your hair,” I say, rolling out of bed.

“Oh no, please don’t leave! We don’t want to interrupt your time. We’ll be really quiet;

you won’t even know we’re here,” Isie pleads with sad eyes.

“Oh, um…okay,” I stammer.

Isie, a newfound grin on her face, flips her dark blonde ponytail and escorts Adam into

the room. They turn on the television and sit on her bed, holding hands and whispering to each

other. I roll over and try to smother myself with a pillow. College, I tell myself, really sucks so

far.

***

“‘Markedly and persistently unstable sense of self-identity.’”

“It’s my second semester of being here, and I’ve already cycled through five majors. It’s

like I just don’t know what I’m working toward, y’know?” I say.

“Sadie, I hear you, I really do. College is tough. But you don’t have to have your whole

life planned out right now,” my advisor replies exhaustedly. “You have—”
 “—so much time ahead of me, yes, I know,” I finish for her. “You’ve told me. Look, I’m

sorry, I really am, but I am just so certain this time. I know I want to major in social work,

because I know I want to help people, and nobody with an English major does that!”

My advisor glances instinctively at the diploma hanging in a frame about her desk. She

has an English degree, I think. Of fucking course.

“I’m sorry, I know that’s not true, obviously you are so helpful, and I really wasn’t

thinking—”

She sighs deeply, her shoulders in a defeated slump. “I know, Sadie. It’s fine,” she says.

“Listen, I’d like to help you. I really would. But add/drop has passed, and you are in classes you

begged for overrides into.”

Is she seriously not going to help me? What is the point of her job? If it was anyone else,

she would help, but she hates me, and who can blame her? Look at yourself. You’re pathetic.

“Why don’t you just give these classes a try and take this semester to really find

yourself?” she continues. “You’re in some really good classes! I’ve heard Julian Briggs’s

American Literature class is enlightening, and he used to be a counselor, so maybe he can help

you determine what your soul is passionate about.”

“What my soul is passionate about.” Is this really the best she can do? I don’t even know

how to spend my free time. It’s hard to care about anything when you don’t know who you are

when you are alone.

“Yeah, maybe,” I reply. “I’m really sorry about the English major thing. It wasn’t fair.”

“It’s okay, Sadie. Truly. I get that a lot,” she says.

 With a sense of finality, my advisor closes shuts her laptop and stands up from her chair.

“It was nice meeting with you today. I hope you have a great semester,” she says, escorting me

out of her office, probably hoping I’ll never come back.

When I get to my dorm room, my mind is racing with ideas. I know that I want to be a

social work major because I’ve researched it and it seems like the perfect fit for me and I know

I’ve said that before but this time is different because those other majors I didn’t know enough

about but this is perfect for me it just fits.

“I’m gonna be a social work major, doesn’t that just seem perfect for me?” I ask my

roommate, Isie, as I climb up the ladder to my bed.

She looks up from her textbook. “I thought you said English was perfect for you?”

“Yes, okay, I said that, but I didn’t know enough about it, and I was just trying to make

myself into someone I’m not.”

“Huh,” she replies. “You printed off every major and went through them meticulously, so

I wouldn’t say you didn’t research them. Don’t you remember when you were obsessed with that

one book, and you read it over and over and said—”

“Okay, yes, I did all that, but English just isn’t who I am. I’m gonna be a social worker.

And so what if I have to stay a year longer? It’s worth it to find true happiness, right?” I retort.

“I guess,” Isie shrugs. “You just change your mind so often.”

I roll my eyes as she buries her head back in her book. This is who I am, I repeat to

myself. This is a version of me I could be happy with. This is who I am meant to be. This is me.

This is me. This is the real me.

By the evening, however, I’m no longer convinced that I’m meant to be a social worker.

I’m no longer convinced that I’m meant to be anything at all. With my roommate gone, I feel
like a blank canvas. Salty tears blur the white cinderblock walls surrounding me, and I can’t help

but feel like an empty shell of a person just waiting for someone to tell me who I am so I can

finally figure out what it is I’m living for.

***

Classes started out well. I was over the moon about everything I was taking, I was

passionate, and I was ready to work.

By the time the second week rolled around, however, I got exhausted. It’s like I have to

focus so much of my energy on things I never even thought of before. Getting out of bed takes

serious convincing, and skipping class has become a guilty pleasure, a secret drug, an instant

relief.

I want to be successful, but I’m just so tired. Isie always manages to get her work done

and also work out, have friends, cook for herself, watch TV, and get at least eight hours of sleep

a night. Not that I’m keeping track.

Taking a shower is a lot of work for me, and it sometimes takes all day to convince

myself to do it. I just lay in bed thinking about all I have to do, and my brain shuts down. Sleep

helps me pretend that my work isn’t piling up. The bigger the pile, the less I want to take a crack

at it.

I want my professors to think I’m a good student. Their opinions of me matter so much.

But I just can’t bring myself to do it. Every day, I feel like I am about to cross the twenty-six-

mile mark; and if I can just get there, the marathon will be done with, and I can go to bed. But I

can’t remedy the fact that my professors think I’m a lazy student who doesn’t do the reading.

They’re right; I am lazy, and I don’t do the reading—but I really want to. I’m trying to try my

best. I’m just exhausted.

 ***

“‘Intense and unstable relationships that show patterns of extreme idealization.’”

Logically, I know it’s probably strange to want to talk to a TA this much. But he makes

me feel so valuable. He makes me feel like I’m worth something.

Julian Briggs. When I met him, he was just my TA, nothing more. But then we started

talking, and before I knew it, it was “Julian this” and “Julian that,” and now he’s all I can think

about.

I read that it’s pretty common for female college freshmen to develop an infatuation with

their professors—they’re smart, they’re sure of themselves, and they’re reassuring—they’re

everything we want to be. It’s natural that we should feel some affinity toward them.

But Julian isn’t like that. I’ve heard some of my classmates remark about his looks, but I

hardly even notice that. He just gets me. Nothing is forced with him.

He is perfect. He knows about books, and music, and languages, and cultures. He is an art

form that I need to study for years and years. I want to get a degree in his mannerisms. I want to

teach a class on the way he looks at me. The best part about him is his dedication to me.

He talks about Twentieth Century American literature, and I melt. He knows so much,

yet he takes the time to really listen to me. He cares about what I have to say. He knows me

better than I know myself.

I know the university looks down upon student-professor relationships, but Julian’s a TA,

and besides, we’re different together. He knows that. I think he knows that. Does he know that?

I try to contain my excitement, but I’m bursting at the seams. I limit the number of times

I allow myself to talk in his class. I want to leave him wanting more. I am an intellectual, and he

knows it.
 His office hours are at the perfect time. We meet and talk about everything. Class,

religion, politics, art. He has an opinion on everything.

The feeling I get when I’m around him is almost nostalgic, like he helps fill the void

within me. I think I am in love. He is absolutely perfect.

Julian Briggs, the name always on the tip of my tongue.

***

Isie and Adam are always in the room, and it’s making me resent them. I do my best to

stay out while they’re in there, but there’s only so much I can do. I still haven’t found my own

group, and once I finish the week’s homework in my usual booth in the library, I just want to go

back to my own space.

They’re nice enough, I guess. Isie, with her dark blonde waist-length hair and beautiful

figure, has never had to make a friend in her life. They all line up, hoping she’ll pick them. But

what’s really shocking is that she’s actually an okay person. She’s constantly inviting me to hang

out with her and Adam, like she can sense that there’s something wrong and has some innate

need to mother me. I can’t completely reject it, either, because it’s nice to have a mother so far

away from home.

Adam is nothing special, but he’s always there. He’s probably six-foot-two or -three, and

his stocky frame and bright blue eyes make him the perfect attractive match for Isie. They are

two celebrities on campus, and the fact that I know them makes me almost a celebrity by proxy.

No one, of course, wants to be around me—but they know that I’m a way into the elite echelon

of beautiful college freshmen, so they tolerate me.

As for their past times, mostly, they just drink. Like, all the time. I feel for their livers.

Isie, strangely protective of me, usually invites me to drink with them.

 I like drinking. It helps me pass the time easier, and it makes me feel less. Isie and Adam

are social drinkers, but every time I drink with them, I’m drinking solely with one purpose: to get

drunk. I’ve heard alcohol called liquid courage, but for me, it’s not anything like that. It’s an

excuse. An excuse for my behavior, which I can’t control—or maybe I can, but I don’t, or I don’t

know how. Is that different? Is that better? Is it worse?

If I can just make something of myself, something that will make my parents proud—I

just want them to idolize me, to obsess over me—then I can make them feel the hollowness I feel

inside.

***

“‘Impulsivity that is possibly self-damaging.’”

There’s usually one specific moment, after I drink, when it’s like my mind wakes up

from the mania I was feeling and realizes all the shitty decisions I’ve made. It’s like I can no

longer apply the filter that hides everything I’ve done to wreck my reputation and relationships,

and I feel frozen and nauseous and short of breath; and I might pass out from anxiety; and I kind

of want to.

The specific moment this time was waking up in bed with my roommate’s boyfriend,

half-dressed and pathetic.

“What are you thinking about?” Adam asks, stroking my hair.

I’m thinking that I need you to get your dirty hands off me, I need to take back everything

you’ve seen. You disgust me. I disgust me. Your fucking face and revolting smell is smothering

me and I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe.

“Nothing. Just happy.”

 Adam sighs contentedly and squeezes me close so that I can hear his heartbeat. It’s calm,

completely out of sync with mine, beating itself out of my chest.

“Happy, yeah?” his voice goes up, like he’s asking a question I didn’t just answer. “Yeah,

me too.”

With each of his slow, deep breaths, I can feel the golden crunch sandwiches rising in my

stomach, threatening to take an encore all over the front of my shirt. His smell is nauseating, a

mixture of sweat and pine. His arm around my shoulders feels like a noose, and I can feel it

tightening.

“When I first came to see you, I wasn’t sure how you’d react. You’re just so…finicky. I

wasn’t sure you felt the same way about me. Actually,” he chuckles, “and don’t laugh, but I

thought you were serious about Julian.”

Julian. My heart leaps and then stands still. I feel the hot tears well up in my eyes. Don’t

say his name. You have no right to him and no right to me and get your hairy arms off of me I

need to shower I am so dirty and he’s in my bed and I need to light this place on fire, that’s the

only way it will ever be clean again and then Julian, oh Julian, he can never know.

“Julian?” I try to say, but the word gets stuck in my throat, tears lowering my voice an

octave and threatening to spill over. “Julian?” I try again. “Why would you—?”

“Hey, I didn’t mean to make you upset. You are just always with him, talking about

books and art or whatever, and I just thought, only for a second, that maybe—but no, I mean,

he’s a TA, so.”

So what? Does that mean he wouldn’t be interested? “So what? Does that mean he

wouldn’t be interested?”
 “Well…no,” Adam shifts to prop himself on his elbows, looking inquisitively at me. “I

mean, he’s a TA, so, no.”

What the fuck does that mean? “What the fuck does that mean?” My face flushes with

heat.

“Sadie…did I do something?” Adam sits up in bed, pulling away from me.

Just tell me, break it to me, what has Julian been saying about me, what does he feel?

“No. I mean, no. I’m sorry. I just—why do you think that? TA’s and undergrads, is that not…?”

I say, trying to sound steady and nonchalant.

Adam still looks concerned. “I just meant…well, TA’s always flirt with female students.

It’s just, like, a way to make them relatable. And I mean, I don’t think it’s wrong—I mean, if it

gets you through American Lit, where’s the harm?” he says, his voice growing with confidence.

“Right? Just look at Isie. I don’t think she’s read a book in her life, but then the first day we meet

Julian, and now all of a sudden she sits in the front row? I don’t think that has anything to do

with a sudden love for Faulkner.”

Isie. Of course. She’s as dumb as they come, but she’s always wearing a low-cut shirt, of

course that’s why. “You really think Julian flirts with Isie?”

“Well, yeah, of course. It really used to bother me, but it won’t go further than that. And I

know he tried it with you once too, but you just…you’re not like them, that’s all. You are so

much…” Adam’s voice faded away. “You’re the smartest girl I’ve ever been with is all I’m

saying. Why are we even talking about Julian? I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

“Of course,” he said. “Of course” Julian flirts with Isie. Her eyes and her figure and I

bet Julian thinks of her and that’s why he’s avoiding me and does he not love me? I thought he

loved me. Why doesn’t he love me? Why am I not enough?

 “Can we just go back to before? I’m really feeling it now. I can barely hold my eyes

open,” Adam nestles his chin into the crook of my neck, breathing in my hair.

Get out of my bed, or lay still while I set it ablaze, I can’t do this I can’t be here I can’t I

can’t I can’t.

“Sure.”

“Good,” Adam says sleepily. Then, he jolts up in bed. “You…aren’t planning to tell Isie,

right? It’s just, we’ve been together for over a year now, and my parents think I’m going to

propose to her, so—”

What complete and utter trash. “Of course not.”

***

The thing about Isie that I’m most jealous of isn’t her looks or her boyfriend or her hoard

of friends. The thing about Isie that I’m most jealous of is her homelife. She goes home every

other weekend to spend time with her mom, dad, and little brother. Sometimes, her dad shows up

on campus in the middle of the week just to have dinner with her. Her mom sends her letters

regularly. Her little brother video chats her nearly every night.

But what gets to me the most is the fact that her parents seem so proud of her. They are

so happy to love her. They want to stay updated on her life. They revel in her successes and

suffer when she fails. They want her to be happy.

My mom is not all bad. I love her, and she loves me as best she can. But we aren’t

anything like Isie’s family.

One night, Isie and I are lying in our beds when she props herself up suddenly on her

elbows and asks me, “What do you and your family do for fun?” I’m not exactly sure what to tell
her. The truth is that there’s not many good memories I have with Mom. But Isie is just too

pretty to understand, so I answer with another version of the truth.

“My mom and I love to cook together,” I answer honestly. “It’s what I miss most about

home.”

“Cooking? How awesome. We should cook here! It might give you a little taste of

home,” Isie says excitedly. “You almost never talk about home, Sadie. Oh, please, let’s cook

something. Do you use recipes, or…?”

“Yes, usually,” I say.

“Okay, I’ll find a good one. What should we make?”

“No, never mind that,” I climb off my bed and open my middle desk drawer. “All the best

recipes are in here,” I say, pulling out the Velveeta cookbook.

And so we drive to the store and pick out way too many ingredients, all of which Isie

insists on paying for. Then Isie and I get to work. We’re making golden crunch sandwiches,

golden platter meals, egg and noodle treats. I’m cracking eggs like a madwoman, yolks weeping

into the bowl. Isie laughs at me and decides to show me what I’m doing wrong. The shell splits

perfectly into two when she does it, and the yolk drops gracefully, still intact.

We make infinite amounts of food and eat until just the sight of food nauseates us. Then

we pack the leftovers into Tupperware and stack them into our minifridge, remnants of a

wonderful night.

***

“‘Frantic efforts to avoid real or imagined abandonment.’”

 I know his office hours by heart. Since he’s not a full-fledged professor, he shares it with

the five other TA’s in the English department. I try to pace myself, but the longer I go without

talking to him, the more incessant my need for his approval gets.

As I walk the cobblestone path to the college of arts building, I try to convince myself to

turn around. I worry about my reputation with the other faculty—I want them to know how much

he values me, but I don’t want to get him into trouble.

I’ve figured out the perfect time of the day to visit, when the other TA’s are in class or

around campus, probably distracting themselves from how dull they are in comparison to Julian.

On Thursdays at 1:15, Julian is always in the office alone. Sometimes, when I want to have a

really long conversation with him, I bring him a coffee—one cream, five sugars.

I ascend three flights to his office. His room is at the other end of the hall, and the door is

propped open, beckoning students to come chat with him about Harper Lee or whoever is on his

mind that day. Sunshine pours into the hall through the crack in the door, and a female voice

carries throughout the otherwise quiet halls.

“I just don’t think that’s what the author intended, Julian,” the voice says genially. “I

mean, it was the 1920s. You really think anyone was that bold?”

A woman. Who is she, and why does she talk like she has ownership over him?

“I’m sorry, Miss ‘B.A. in history,’ I don’t remember reading your senior thesis on

Fitzgerald,” Julian’s voice laughs as I reach the office door.

Through the crack, I see a beautiful woman with curly red hair standing over Julian’s

shoulder, reading off his computer screen. She playfully swats at his shoulder, and he spins

around in his chair to bring her into a kiss. As he leans into her, his eyes glance toward the
hallway, toward where I’m standing. He breaks away from the woman and gestures toward the

door.

“Sadie!” he calls cheerfully. “Come on in!”

I push the door open, a feeling of revulsion rising in my chest.

“Sadie, I’d love to introduce you. This is my wife, Harriet,” he says, arm around the red

head. “Harriet, this is Sadie, one of my brightest and most enthusiastic students.”

His wife. His wife. His wife.

“Oh, how nice to meet you, Sadie!” Harriet chirps. “Julian is always talking so fondly of

his students.”

His wife. His wife. His wife. I attempt a half smile. It feels like a grimace. Why didn’t he

pick me? Why would he do this to me? Why would he make me feel like this?

“Was there…something you wanted to discuss, Sadie?” Julian asks.

Of course he’s fucking married, he’s a TA, not your friend, not your lover, he doesn’t

care about you, you’re just another student, you’re not special, you don’t mean anything, you’re

worthless, you attention-whore, you low-life scum of the Earth, why would you think this was

anything more than a teacher trying to let his over-excited student down easy?

All I want to do is splash this scalding coffee in his face. He deserves it, the lowlife,

treating vulnerable young students like the scum of the earth. His fucking wife.

“No. I just—” I start. He chose her, he already picked, he’s a liar, he doesn’t care about

you, you are nothing to him, you are nothing. “No.”

Harriet and Julian stare blankly at me, unsure of what to say. His arm is still wrapped

tightly around her, and I imagine it’s a boa constrictor, slowly making its way around her neck to

suffocate her until she is nothing. His wife.

 “I should—I need to go to class,” I stammer. “It was nice—nice to meet you.”

He did this to me on purpose, he wants to see me hurt, I hate him, I want to see him

suffer, how could he make me feel this way, why would he do this to me, he is nothing.

She says something to me, but I rush out of the room so fast it doesn’t register. How

could it, past the pounding in my head? His wife.

***

My father tried to maintain contact with me after he walked out. At first, he called every

few nights. But all I could ask him, Mom says, is when he was coming home. Maybe it’d be hard

to hear your five-year-old ask you that over and over again—apparently it was for him—so he

stopped calling so much. It became a once-a-week ordeal.

By the time I turned seven, my father called once a month if I was lucky. I remember one

day he called me and asked me if I wanted to come over and see his new house. He’d gotten a

new puppy, he said, and he needed someone to play with it.

I was over the moon. Mom was hesitant because she knew how he was, but she was just a

single mother trying her best. She took me to see him and his puppy, through the subdivisions he

swore he’d never live in. Once we got to his new house, we saw another little girl outside,

playing with the smallest puppy I’d ever seen.

Mom must’ve known right away, because she told me to wait in the car while she went to

his front porch to hash it out. I couldn’t hear everything they were saying, but I could read the

conversation well enough. Mom came back livid and drove me away, all the while shouting

about how my useless father had gotten himself a new girlfriend, a new daughter, a new puppy, a

new family. We weren’t apart of his life anymore, she said.

 I didn’t understand, but I still felt. I felt it all. I felt gutted. I felt worthless. I felt

replaceable. Why couldn’t we be enough? Why couldn’t Mom, with her cheese casseroles and

sing-song voice and seven-year-old daughter, be enough for him?

Mom’s spent her whole life wondering as much, and I never could understand why she

put it all on herself. But I do now.

***

“‘Intense and unstable relationships that show patterns of extreme devaluation.’”

My computer screen blinks at me. I know what I want to say, I know what I need to say,

but I don’t have the words to say it. I crack my knuckles and hit compose. It’s worth a shot

regardless.

Julian,

You knew what my intentions were. I came to your office hours weekly. I

followed a routine. I brought you coffee. I listened to your stupid opinions

on everything. You knew what this would do to me. Why would you

introduce her to me? Why do you want me to suffer? Don’t I suffer enough

without you? You are pathetic.

Send.

Once I click it, it’s done. I feel a rush of ecstasy. This is what he deserves. I hit compose

again.

It would be different if you were even worth anything, but you’re not. You

are not. The way you have treated me is absolutely unacceptable, and I

can’t stand for it. I’m going straight to the dean, and you will get what you

have coming to you. You are worthless.

 Send.

I am floating fifty feet above the ground. I am not in control of my fingers. They have a

mind of their own. They just type and type and I watch them rip my life apart. I’m giddy.

She’s not even pretty. She’s nothing like me. I bet she’s unintelligent and

mediocre at everything she does. Perfect for you.

Send.

Inside of me boils a mixture of fear and rage that not even the finest strainer could

separate. It’s like my father is leaving me all over again. Why doesn’t he love me the way I

deserve? Aren’t I worth more than this? Why am I not good enough? Why can’t I be like Isie?

I’m useless. He’s useless. I’m useless.

Julian,

You won’t have to see me ever again. I know I won’t be able to look at

your face. Don’t contact me again. Don’t expect coffee or visits or anything

from me ever again. None of this is worth it.

Send.

I am not enough. I am not enough. I am not enough. I am not enough. I am not enough.

***

When I dream, I dream of home. Mom and me in the kitchen, singing and cooking and

dancing in our sock feet. Real Mom is nothing like Dream Mom. Real Mom is absent and angry

and ashamed at raising a child without a father. Real Mom doesn’t want to talk about feelings.

Real Mom gets mad when I cry, maybe because she’s worried that one tear too many will turn

me into someone as sad as she is.

 Dream Mom, on the other hand, is perfect. Dream Mom alleviates the hollow feeling

deep within me. Dream Mom is proud of me. Dream Mom makes dinner with me and asks me

about my day and drives across the country to spend the weekend with me. Dream Mom fills me

with nostalgia for a time when Real Mom was enough, but now I know Dream Mom, and I wake

up feeling sadder and lonelier than before.

Dream Mom wants me to be alive, no matter what. Real Mom understands why I’m not

sure I want to be.

***

“‘Recurrent suicidal thoughts or attempts.’”

I am awakened by a harsh rapping on the door. The room is dark like pitch; there’s not

enough light to see if my roommate is in her bed. I grope around under my pillow for my phone,

which tells me it’s 1:52 in the morning. I groan to myself, angry at who I can only assume is my

roommate, who conveniently loses her keys every time I’ve finally fallen asleep.

The darkness swallows me whole as I roll onto the ladder and stumble down my lofted

bed. My eyes are puffy and sore, and for a minute, I can’t remember why. There’s a gnawing

feeling in my stomach, and I’m convinced my body is filled with cement. I feel around in the

dark for my glasses, and my hand knocks the Velveeta cookbook, still out from that perfect

night, onto the dirty clothes piled on my floor. The rapping grows louder.

“Just a minute,” I call into the darkness.

I make my way to the peep hole, but the darkness is so great that it spreads into the

hallway, encompassing everything it touches. I vaguely wonder if there was a blackout from the

storm and I just slept through it.

 The rapping turns into a pounding loud enough to match the throbbing in my head, and I

fling the door open, desperate to make it stop.

I am startled to see the culprit is not my roommate but rather two middle-aged men in

police uniforms, guns attached to their hips. My body grows cold and I can’t breathe. The

oxygen has been sucked out of the room.

“Sadie,” the one on the left demands in his booming voice.

I cross my arms on my chest, suddenly vulnerable in my stained sleep shirt and bare legs

covered in months’ worth of dark fuzz. How does he know my name?

“Sadie Williams,” he repeats forcefully. “Is that you?” The one on the right looks at me

expectantly.

“Oh, um, yep?” I mumble, shifting uncomfortably.

“Mind if we come in?” the one on the right asks. “This isn’t the kind of conversation I

want to have in the doorway.”

“Okay.”

I flip on the light, and they step into the dorm, giant and somber against my roommate’s

tapestry. I stare at the left one’s gun, and it seems to stare back, asking, “Hey, I’m just along for

the ride, what do I know?”

“Sadie, do you know why we’re here?” the left one asks, following my sightline to his

partner’s gun. “You aren’t in trouble; we just want to talk.”

“Just want to talk,” the right one echoes.

“Talk,” his gun says.

I gulp.
 “Sadie, your teacher Julian Briggs contacted us after he got a concerning email from

you,” the left one continues. “He’s worried. He cares about your safety first and foremost, and so

do we.”

The room is shaking, but the officers are perfectly still. They don’t feel the walls

collapsing in on me. The sinking sensation in my stomach has intensified, and my fingertips are

tingling. I can’t breathe.

“Julian…” I breathe. “He—”

“Sadie, I’m just going to ask you directly: are you thinking about harming yourself?”

I’m sinking, sinking into a place I can’t come back from. My face is burning, my arms

are freezing, and my ears ring with the left one’s words. Are you thinking about harming

yourself?

“No,” I say definitively. “No, please. I don’t want—that’s not—I didn’t mean to start any

of this.”

“Sadie,” the right one says gently. “We just need to hear the truth.”

I my stomach lurches, and I shudder uncontrollably. “I think that—maybe I—Julian

shouldn’t have—it’s not like that.”

“Julian Briggs is a teaching assistant here, which means he works for the university. He is

what we call a ‘mandated reporter,’” the left one says.

“That just means that, when he thinks a student is in trouble, he has to get them help,” the

right one explains. “That’s a good thing,” he adds, sensing my confusion.

“A good—yes, of course. No, no, I’m not going to do—that,” I gush. “I’m so sorry. I

didn’t—I’m sorry.”
 “It’s okay, Sadie,” the right one assures. “This happens more than you’d think. All we

want to hear is that you’re okay.”

Okay. I’m okay. I’m not even sure what that means at this point.

“I’m okay,” I say. “I’m okay.”

“Okay, Sadie. Do you have your RA’s phone number? She’s probably your best resource

through all of this. I’m also going to send you a pamphlet, if you can give me your email…”

I can’t hear a word he’s saying. My hands are going numb, and the color is draining from

my face. I shut my eyes and pray—or recite—or pretend—again and again: please let me be

anywhere but here, please let me be anywhere but here….

“In the meantime, Sadie, it might be a good idea to go to the counselor’s office on

campus. It’s completely free to students, and it might be helpful. Remember, Sadie, we all get

sad sometimes,” the right one says softly, “but you can’t let this defeat you.”

***

“Sadie. Sadie,” a voice says, soft yet firm. “Did any of those criteria stick out to you?”

I open my eyes and look at her. She looks concerned, and maybe she should be. I’m not

sure what to make of any of this.

“Has anyone ever talked to you about Borderline Personality Disorder?” she asks

sincerely, eye contact unwavering.

“No,” I say, shaking my head vigorously. “No one but you.”

“Okay. Good. Well, based on what you’ve just told me, I think that would be a great

place to start. I’m actually very pleased that you’ve never heard of BPD, because most people

don’t understand it. I don’t want you to feel negatively based on someone else’s perception of a

disorder they know very little about,” she says. “Your diagnosis, should we choose to make it
official, is nothing but a label that helps us better understand what it is we’re fighting against. It’s

nothing to be ashamed of, and it’s nothing you have to share until you’re ready. By the end of

this battle, you will be living for yourself, Sadie. No one else will be in control of how you feel.

Together, we’ll learn how you can start to feel like a person.

“You call the shots here, Sadie. We can treat this. We will treat this. We’re just going to

do it on your timeline.”

***

I am a complex individual. I am a person who has been through a lot. I am a college

student affected by mental illness. I am the child of a mother who tried, who followed recipes

and rules and routine to create some sense of regularity in my life. I am the child of a father who

walked out, who chose not to love me in the way I needed to be loved. I know this. I know all of

this.

My therapist says writing about the past can help me sort out my feelings and symptoms.

She’s convinced me that, Borderline or not, it’s a good idea to track my progress. Maybe my

mother had the right idea all along.

I try to remember her on her good days—in the kitchen, singing and cooking. “A little bit

of cheese cheers everyone up,” she’d say in her sing-song voice. And we’d cook and cook,

because it was easier to just be than to think of something to say.

Breaking down each criterion makes it easier to sort out my thoughts. “Divide and

conquer,” my mom would say. “That’s the way to get it done. First, combine the dry ingredients.

Don’t worry about the rest. One step at a time, that’s the way to follow a recipe. We can’t think

about the end until we’ve cracked all the eggs.”

 My therapist says it’s not our fault my dad left, and I think she’s right, but I wish my

mom believed that. I wish she wasn’t so busy blaming herself for the actions of a man she

couldn’t control. I wish I would stop chasing after a paternal figure to fill the father-shaped

wound he left to fester. I wish I didn’t have to wait thirteen years to start figuring out how to live

without his love.

I’m learning to crack the eggs so that the yolk won’t break. It’s not something I ever

thought I could do, but I know now that nearly everything can be taught. Cooking can be taught.

Self-love can be taught. Forgiveness can be taught.

Everyone is doing the best they can, and one step at a time, I will learn how to live with

love and not let it consume me. I really do believe that. I know how to cook and keep busy and

follow the routine, day in, day out.

I know that everything is not okay right now; but it will be, God willing. It will be.