The psychiatrist received the words and stayed silent, welcoming more expression. Aria glanced around the room. “Life is like an air-filled syringe to the veins,” she said, playing with the end of her sleeve. “I wish that love could make this world good, instead of sugar-coat it.”

“Are you saying that you feel like love is fake?”

“Yes, love is fake!” Aria shouted.

The psychiatrist scribbled notes on the pad of paper in his hands. It made her feel like a lab rat there to be studied. As if to cut him off from his writing, Aria said, “You people don’t care about me, you don’t care about me at all. You just want me to die so you can be rid of me.”

“We don’t want you to die – that’s precisely why you’re here,” he said, not looking up from his paper.

A marked silence fell over the room. Eventually he looked up from his notes and steered the conversation in another direction. “You’ve experienced a pretty big loss; how do you feel about losing your mother?”

Aria looked at him in obstinate defiance. “I don’t think anything about it,” she answered.

He scribbled again in his notes. It went on like this for over an hour, the psychiatrist trying to extract information from her, Aria evading his questions. Inside she was dying. Inside, she heard the truthful answer to his questions arise within her chest; she knew that she was not OK. But she couldn’t let him know that.

When the appointment was over, the man stood up and put his hands in his pockets. “I’d be glad to keep seeing you if you want to come,” he said. Aria nodded and said OK. But she did not intend to return.

Aria made her way to a chair in the waiting room next to Mrs Johnson, who had been anxiously awaiting her return. The psychiatrist waved her mother into the room. The door closed behind them but they didn’t realize that Aria could still make out the conversation.

“I’m fairly certain that Aria has manic depression,” the psychiatrist explained. “The file I received from the agency said that she was treated for methamphetamine toxicity. I have to tell you that mood disorders are fairly common in children who have been exposed to meth.”

Aria could imagine Mrs Johnson looking at the floor rather than at the man telling her the news. “Yes, they said it was a possibility. But I just couldn’t imagine that with the right upbringing, she wouldn’t get better.” After a brief pause, she went on, “I have four other children at home. She can’t keep doing this. She’s a bad influence on them and I’m at the end of my rope.”