I would walk into the room and sit on the chair, the left side of the room, and I'd focus on the green curtains and the nearly empty bulletin board that you hung on the wall. I would look off to the side when answering your questions. I was always too shaken up to look you in the eye.You'd have me spill my guts. You'd dissect me while listening to me, scanning my every move: my horribly passive body language, my sullen eyes and soft spoken voice chronically vomiting out words. Being a conversationalist, I'd ask you how you were. You were like my imaginary friend, always checking up on me, making maps of my body and marking problem areas like the places you've seen, the beaches you've sat on. Wellfleet is Depression, where you had the best New England clam chowder. Anxiety is West Palm, and memories of driving through open roads with gigantic houses rode on your back while the Atlantic left a hum in your ear. I'd ask to go to the bathroom so I could cry in private, even though you advised me to cry more often in front of people. My brain pounded visions of myself in my bed suffocating myself with a pillow, hot faced and salty eyed. And I let each tear drip down onto the carpeted floor, I let my mask slowly come off as I stared out the window, seeing nothing but an ivory sky through green curtains.