How to: Save a Life.

"How are you doing today, Parker?" Dr. Sampson asks.

Her office has a bookshelf, just like all shrinks' offices tend to have. To patients like me it's known as The Bookshelf because it contains all of the books that are required reading material. First off, there's the DSM, the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual, which pretty much lists every single kind of psychological disorder known to man. And in all honesty -and I mean no lie whatsoever, I actually tried reading some of it once. Needless to say it's definitely a fun read for those of you who enjoy looking at pages with a very long, complex vocabulary.

Anyway, back to the bookshelf. Not only is there DSMs, but there are also an assortment of books on specific disorders such as different types of anxiety, phobias, and depression. That's what I have -depression.

"I'm okay," I respond, resting my elbows on each side of the arm rests. Leaning back I quickly rethink my answer and begin to ponder a way to take it back. "Well, of course I'm not really okay. If I was okay I wouldn't be here, right?"

The woman shrugs, "is there something wrong with you being here?"

I scoff, holding back the urge to roll my eyes. "Uh, yeah," I say. "It means I'm unstable."

"Does it?"

Swallowing hard, I nod.

"There's nothing wrong with not having the same amount as stability as others. It just means you're more emotional."

Wow, did you come up with that yourself? Because that should go on a get well soon card for you sick grandma.

I shake my head, but she ignores me and continues on, "right now you're going through a process. This is a hard time in your life and you're asking for help."

I avert my gaze from her towards the objects on her desk while nibbling my bottom lip. There's not much to look at though. A small green desk lamp rests on the top left corner, remaining unlit because it's only -I glance at the ticking clock, something I do often when I'm here- three-thirty. On the center of her desk, a small ways away from the lamp is a name tag paper weight which flashes the name: Dr. Elizabeth Sampson.

"There's nothing wrong with asking for help you know."

Sighing effortlessly I give up arguing with her because I know I'll never win. During these sessions all she wants to do is make me feel good, comfortable while she tries to pick apart my brain and find out the real reason why I've been feeling so down for the past year.

"I didn't sleep last night."

"Didn't sleep?"

I shake my head and truthfully I'm not exaggerating. I didn't actually go to sleep last night. Instead I stayed up all night, watching the third season of The Big Bang Theory on DVD and doing my math homework that's been due for about a week now.

"What happened while you stayed awake?"

I shrug, not sure why she's so interested in my nocturnal behavior. "I watched TV and did homework."

"And how did you feel when you were doing these things?"

I shrug again. Sometimes I feel like it's the only thing I can do. "I don't know," I try to sound convincing, like I really don't know, but the truth is I know perfectly well how I was feeling last night.

"You don't know?" She repeats. It's something she does often. Like some psychobabble used to get patients to let their true feelings show. The more you repeat a question the more you get out of it and the worst part about it is the fact that it's so annoying that it actually works.