"So, we're having a little get-together for my mom's birthday this weekend at my parent's house. And since you were so awesome at teaching me how to throw cake batter all over the kitchen, I feel it's only right that you come with me so I can show off my mad cake batter flinging skills," he explains.

He really is crazy. I'm still in shock that he didn't run away during my freak out and can hardly believe he wanted to kiss me AND he called when he said he would. And now he wants me to meet his parents?

"I don't know if that's such a good idea," I reply nervously.

"Sorry, not only is it a good idea, it's a genius idea. If I bake this cake and it ends up tasting like old gym shoes, you'll be there to save the day."

Okay, now it makes sense. He doesn't want his mother's birthday to be cake-less. If he takes his own personal baker with him, he can make sure that doesn't happen. Maybe that kiss didn't mean as much to him as it did to me. I don't like the feelings of insecurity floating around in my brain as I sit here second-guessing what this thing is between us. I'm not used to feeling so girly and needy.

"Plus, I really want you to be there. I want to spend more time with you, and I want you to meet my family," he tells me softly after I'd already convinced myself he was only asking to make sure his mom had cake.

I don't say anything right away. What can I say? It's probably not a good idea for you to take me around other people because I'm not all that normal?

"Please, Addison? I'd really like you to be there."

He sounds so earnest and sweet that I can't help but agree to whatever he asks. I hesitantly accept his invitation and hope to God I haven't just made the biggest mistake of my life.

Chapter Eight

"There's no shame in taking medication, Addison. Plenty of people need a little something to help with their depression. It doesn't mean you're weak. It just means you need a little boost. You've been on a small dose for a while now. Maybe it's time we bump it up a little bit," Dr. Thompson explains as she takes a sip of hazelnut coffee out of a mug that says "Let them eat cake."

I know it's normal and that one in ten people take some sort of antidepressant. I've read all of the literature, but that still doesn't mean I like it.

"For some people it's hard to get back on track after a tragedy. It's not going to turn you into a zombie or anything. It's just going to help keep your emotions in check so you aren't all over the place."

I trust Dr. Thompson as much as I can trust someone, and as I watch her write out a prescription refill for one hundred milligrams of Zoloft, I actually do feel a small weight lifted off of my shoulders. Maybe this will be the light at the end of the tunnel that I need. Maybe now my thoughts won't constantly be plagued with death and sadness.

As I pull the bottle of pills out of my medicine cabinet, I close the mirrored door and stand in front of the sink staring at myself. As I blindly open the lid and let one of the little blue pills spill into my hand, I wonder why I continue to do this. I've been taking this medication for a year now, and even though it keeps me from crying every single day and wanting nothing more than to curl up into a ball in bed and never get out, it hasn't helped. Instead, it does what Dr. Thompson said it wouldn't. It turns me into a zombie. I don't walk around in a daze or mumble incoherently, I just…don't. I don't feel; I don't care; I don't do anything other than get up every day and go through the motions. If I read a book that made other people sob for days, I feel nothing. If I watch a gut-wrenching movie, I stare at the screen and wonder what all the fuss was about. Nothing affects me and nothing shakes me.

Setting the bottle on the edge of the sink, I stare at the pill in my hand. Such a tiny little thing, the color of a robin's egg. It's so small and yet what it does to me is so huge.

I don't want to feel everything. I don't want to drown in my emotions, but I also don't want to keep going like this anymore. I want to feel something. I don't know what this thing with Zander is or where it's going, but I do know that it won't go anywhere if it's impossible for me to feel the emotions that go hand-in-hand with being with someone, especially someone like him. He's so full of life and I'm just blah.

Glancing up at my reflection in the mirror again, I wonder what it is he sees in me. My eyes are vacant and they have dark shadows under them, and I can't remember the last time I actually smiled when it wasn't forced. Why would he want to spend time with someone like me? I think he would have really loved the old me. The one who could always make people laugh and actually cared about things. The one who loved unconditionally and easily shared that love with others.

I've done as my dad said and took the last few days off from the bakery, but I honestly have no idea what to do with myself. I tried writing again, but the words wouldn't come. I tried reading but nothing held my interest. I even tried shopping, something a nineteen-year-old girl should love to do. I walked aimlessly around the mall and didn't buy anything.

Suddenly, it doesn't feel right to be taking this pill anymore. It doesn't feel right to shut everything off when I actually want to feel. There were definitely times when I should have been on this medication: when she was diagnosed, when she was sick, or even at her funeral. Maybe this little blue pill would have kept me together then instead of letting me fall apart.

I stood just outside the viewing room and stared at the open doorway, refusing to go in. My father was already there, choosing to go in alone. I could hear his sobs from out here as he stood over the casket.

I didn't want to go in there. I didn't want to see her like that, so still and quiet. She was never still OR quiet, and to see her like that now, in a perfectly pressed blue dress that she was going to wear to my high school graduation, makes me want to scream. I can hear the funeral director talking softly to my Aunt Katie behind me about how long the viewing will last and that if the family needed anything to let him know. I just wanted to tell him to shut up. What the family needed right now was her to be alive and not lying in a white casket with pink roses etched all around it. My mother hated roses. She would hate that people would be filing in here soon to stare at her and cry for her. She would hate that there were a hundred flower bouquets lined up all around the perimeter of the room she was in. All that money wasted on someone who would never get to enjoy them.

"Don't send me flowers when I'm dead. They're of no use to me when I'm gone. Give me flowers when I'm still here and can appreciate them."

A memory of the words she spoke each time we went to someone else's funeral and wandered around to look at all the arrangements filled my head and anger began to mix with the sadness.

I wanted to go in there, pick up all of the baskets and vases, and hurl them across the room. I wanted the cloying smell of roses and carnations and lilies gone from my nose. The smell made me sick to my stomach, and I knew that from now on, anytime I smelled a flower I would remember this moment.

"Come on, sweetie, it's time to go in. People are going to start showing up any minute now," Aunt Katie said softly as she walked up next to me and put her arm around my waist.

The funeral home had the close family members come in a half hour early so they could grieve in private for a little while before the masses showed up. Didn't they realize that thirty minutes was nowhere near long enough to grieve?

Aunt Katie gently pushed me forward and together we walked up to the open doorway. My father sat in the first row of chairs the funeral home had set up right in front of the casket. He had his head in his hands, and I could see his shoulders shaking with sobs. I didn't want to look, but I couldn't help it. My gaze slid across the deep red carpet by his feet, over to the black stand the casket rested on, and up the front of the shiny white marble with pink roses. The breath I'd been holding whooshed from my lungs when I saw her. It looked like her, but it didn't. In her hands she clutched a black rosary my father had given her for their anniversary a few years before. I remembered going to my grandfather's funeral when I was six years old and staring at his body, waiting to see his chest start moving with the breath of life again. I found myself doing that now. I stared at her chest and willed it to move. Please, God, let it move. Let this all be a nightmare. Please don't let it be real. My eyes traveled up to her face, and I had to swallow back a sob. She had on too much makeup. Why did they put lipstick on her? She never wore lipstick. I wanted to run up there and wipe it all off and tell her to open her eyes. I couldn't be here. I couldn't do this. It wasn't right and it shouldn't be happening.

Turning from my Aunt Katie's arms, I fled from the doorway, through the lobby, and down a hallway until I found the bathroom. I didn't turn on the light; I preferred the darkness right then. With heaving sobs I buried my face into the corner of the wall and cried. I cried so hard that my chest hurt.

"No, no, no, no, no," I sobbed over and over. "I don't want to go in there. I don't want to go in there. Why is this happening?"

My tears fell so fast they poured out of me and I let them. I didn't wipe them away or try to stop them. Maybe if I cried all of the tears I had in me it would wash away all of this pain. It would stop the hurt and make this all a bad dream. I didn't want to feel this anymore. I didn't want to feel anything anymore. I sank to my knees on the bathroom floor and cried for my mother and the unfairness of it all.

The memory fades and I quickly blink back tears, refusing to let them fall. Lifting my hand to my mouth, I pause right before popping the pill and look at myself in the mirror again. Who am I and what am I doing? What am I doing with my life and where am I going? Is this pill really the answer? Is shutting everything off really the solution to all of my problems? I don't want to feel everything, but I also don't want to feel nothing. I don't want to be a basket case, but I also don't want to be emotionless.

I take a deep breath and tip my hand over until the pill falls into the sink. Grabbing the bottle, I dump the rest of them until little blue pills are scattered all over the sink bowl. With a shaking hand, I reach over and turn on the faucet letting the cold water wash them all down the drain. When the last one disappears, I turn off the water, look back up at my reflection, and take a deep breath. I walk out of the bathroom and go over to my computer desk, powering up my laptop and logging onto Facebook. Going to her page, I stare at her profile picture. I click on Account Settings and then Privacy. My mouse hovers over Deactivate Account.

I should have deleted her page a long time ago. Every time I receive a notification for her birthday or see when other family members have posted messages about missing her I want to throw my computer across the room. Half of those people never even came to visit her when she was sick or called to see how she was, and now that she's gone, they suddenly miss her. They had all the time in the world to spend with her, but they were too busy with their own lives.

I know it's not healthy behavior to keep her account active, but I can't do it. I move the mouse away from the deactivation link and open a new message to her instead. Shutting down this account feels like saying good-bye to her all over again, and I'm not ready to do that. Maybe someday, but not now.

Dear Mom:

I wish I could talk to you again, just one more time.

I love you. I need you. I miss you.

Love,

Addison

Chapter Nine

"I think you're making good progress, Addison. But you need to open yourself up to new experiences. You can't keep letting fear of the unknown stop you from living your life," Dr. Thompson explains.

"How am I supposed to do that? It's not that easy to just open myself up again when circumstances beyond my control have forced me to be closed off for so long," I complain.

"I know, but the good thing is you can recognize what you've been doing to yourself. You can easily admit that you've shut down your feelings and your emotions with other people for fear of getting hurt. It's a big step that you're able to do that, Addison, believe me."

I roll my eyes and laugh.

"The first step is admitting it? Are you really using the twelve steps on me right now?" I ask sarcastically.

"Why not? They don't just work for people with addiction problems. They can work for anyone who is struggling with something in their life. You've been struggling with depression, anger, sadness, trust…all of those things take time to get over, and all of those things require you to take certain steps toward overcoming those hurdles."

Dr. Thompson reaches over into the drawer of the table next to her and pulls out a sheet of paper and hands it to me.

"I'm sure you've gotten a copy of the twelve steps before at the support groups you've been to, but I want you to look at them again with fresh eyes. Think about how they can help you, instead of your father. You don't have to follow them word for word. The beauty of the twelve steps to recovery is that you can alter them to fit your needs. Step one: We admit we are powerless over our addiction—that our lives have become unmanageable. You felt powerless over the loss of your mother and what it did to your family, so you closed yourself off and your life became unmanageable."

I stare at the list, doing what she said and look at it with new eyes, reading the steps and trying to apply them to myself.

"Admitting how powerless you feel about your life is a big step towards healing, Addison. You can recognize the problems that forced you to become the person you are now, and you can begin moving forward. It's all about taking chances and living outside your comfort zone. You've become comfortable with the person you've become, but that doesn't mean it's the best thing for you or what's going to make you happy again. Step outside the wall you've built to protect yourself," she tells me as she reaches over to her side table and grabs her cup of hazelnut Panera coffee. I'm listening to everything she says, but all I can focus on is that stupid cup of coffee and I wonder if she drinks it week after week just to mess with me.