I filled it out, then slid the clipboard back to the receptionist, smiling nervously.

“Have a seat,” she gestured. “Dr. Brace will be with you soon.”

I stood in the waiting room, unable to sit still. A young woman, covered in tattoos, was seated in the corner, her head down, looking at nothing. I picked up a pamphlet on suicide prevention and skimmed through it, unable to comprehend any of the words.

“Grace?” a voice boomed behind me.

I flinched.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.” He was a tall man, early sixties, with wispy grey hair and a mustache. He wore round glasses and carried an extra twenty pounds in his midsection. “I’m Dr. Brace. You can follow me.”

I followed him down the long, narrow hallway, past open and closed office doors. I scratched my jawline vigorously. My shoulders ached, and I could barely hold my head up.

With each step, I thought: You still have time to run.

Left foot: Just turn around, Grace.

Right foot: You don’t need him.

Left foot: You know exactly what he’s going to tell you.

Right foot: You’re fucking crazy, he can’t help you.

He excused us as we stepped around a woman who was vacuuming the grey carpet.

Left foot: Too late.

I was standing in his office.

Dr. Brace shut the door behind us, quieting the noise of the vacuum and trapping me inside.

“Have a seat,” he said, motioning to an off-white armchair in the corner. I’d always imagined a couch.

Wheeling an ergonomic office chair out from behind his desk, he sat facing me, lifted a file folder and a pad of paper, and placed them in his lap.

“How are you, Grace?” He wrote the date in numbers and slashes at the top of his page before lifting his gaze.

“I’ve been better.”

He tilted his pad slightly upward, noticing my eyes on it. “I’m sorry to hear that. I see you’ve been referred to me by Dr. Jones,” he said, peeking at my file. He paused to read over the notes. “She said you’ve been feeling sad. Finding it hard to get out of bed. Haven’t been to work in weeks.”

This was something I’d grow to disdain. A medical professional reading to me from my file, using my own words against me.

“I guess so.” I ran my fingers through my ponytail, shaking the hairs that stuck between my fingers onto the rug.

He watched the strands of blond hair fall. “What else are you feeling?”

I knew exactly how I felt, but few ways to describe it.

“I feel like I’m disappearing.”

“Okay.” Dr. Brace straightened his glasses in mild anticipation, as though we were already getting somewhere. “Can you elaborate on that?”

“I feel like I’m not real.” There were three light bulbs in the room: two lamps and one overhead. “Like I’m watching my life from afar.” Four posters, each featuring some sort of inspirational quote. Each turned my stomach equally. “I’m afraid I’m going to disappear and no one will notice.” Three degrees, each stamped with a large red seal and framed in black.