Rishi was good to me, moving all of our belongings over and respectfully boxing Maa’s things, putting them in the spare room for me to go through in my own time. I sensed, though, that he was becoming impatient with me. He wanted his friend back, and there was no way that I could explain to him that I wanted me back too. I didn’t want to live in a constant state of fear that, at any given moment, my heart would begin to race, and I would lose control of myself.

Taking a bus to the doctor’s office was out of the question. Panic rose the second the elevator doors closed in my apartment building, and by the time they opened in the lobby, I was fighting for my breath. Diving into a taxi, I shoved the psychiatrist’s card into the taxi driver’s hands before lifting my arms over my head and counting each breath I took, trying to focus on breathing in deeply and exhaling with control. It worked temporarily, but by the time we pulled up at the office, fear exploded inside me. What if the doctor told me I couldn’t recover from this? What if I was broken? Permanently scarred from watching my Maa die. What if my mother, all those years ago, instinctively knew that I was defective, abandoning me in the same way an animal does when nature tells them that their offspring is not normal?

I threw the money for the journey onto the front seat of the taxi before running the short distance to the psychiatrist’s office. This was nerve-wracking, going to see someone who would delve into my mind and ready me to go to war with myself. And that was the thing, Maa wasn’t there anymore, she wasn’t standing behind me, encouraging me, guiding me through the battle of my life. She was gone, and I felt like I would have to fight this fight alone. I must have looked a sight, bursting into the silent room, hands fumbling for the pills that kept me sane. I counted my breaths, willing the rushing blood to calm and for my hands to be steady so I could find my mouth and administer the antidote for the war raging inside me. As I felt the panic dissipate, I looked up. A woman, familiar and scared-looking, sat on a large leather couch, a cushion clutched so tightly to her chest that her knuckles were white. She looked at me wide-eyed, not judging, but sympathetic. Understanding.