But I’m at least following Dr. Sweatervest’s advice of being mindful of my body. I’m logging everything I eat so that I don’t overeat, and though I do go to the gym every day, I’m not killing myself. I’m still not looking into mirrors, but I’m trying my best to give voice to all the things I love about myself and my body.

In our last session, we came up with a mantra where I focused on a few things I admire about myself and read them until I believed them. My homework is to add to the list as much as I can. So far, I have:

1. Grapefruit calves

2. Thick thighs, the good kind

3. Cool gray, wavy hair

4. Good artist

5. Great friend.

Technically, Rae insisted I add that last one, but I’m counting it as something I came up with if Dr. Sweatervest asks.

One of the other things Sweatervest suggested was asking my friends to check in on me. Opening up to them. Being vulnerable. It’s an exercise in building trust, even though I think it could end horribly. But I’m trying my best. So I spend an inordinate amount of time at Sofía and Chloe’s off-campus house. The more I get to know them, the safer I feel around them, and the more comfortable I feel baring my soul. With a little help from some pot, of course.

On Thanksgiving Day, I’m not over their house for five minutes before Sofía dangles a ziplock bag of mossy weed and a small handblown glass bowl with pink and yellow swirls. “No shoptalk tonight. Only mellow fun times. You down?” she asks, and I nod. “Chlo, load him up.” She gently tosses the bag and the bowl at Chloe.

I run a hand through my unkempt hair. “What is that thing?”

Chloe blinks at me. “You’ve never seen a bowl?”

“A what now?” I ask. “I’m used to the pens.”

“Oh, the shit that kills you?” Chloe sucks her teeth. “This is the only way to smoke unless you have a joint, but that takes too long. This is way healthier.”

Sofía chuckles. “Just don’t pull too hard. We’ve seen many a rookie pull so deep, they end up violently coughing and blowing all the pot onto the ground.”

Chloe instructs me on how to place my lips on the mouthpiece while holding one finger over the vent, lighting with my free hand, and sucking in the smoke from the embers. “You’re gonna cough, so hand the bowl over gently. If you drop it, I drop you.”

“She’s not kidding,” Sofía adds. “Here, I’ll help you.” She holds it and lights it for me. The lighter flicks and ignites the grass for me, and I pull too gently.

“I didn’t get anything,” I say as a tiny wisp of vapor escapes my lips.