Reasons to Be Happy by Katrina Kittle

just the Dad crisis. I could tell by the cheesy notes they wrote me. DeTello wrote me this great note, though, and said she only wanted me to do my Make a Difference Project, “Because I know Hannah Carlisle has a lot to offer the world.” Hmm.
    I could’ve also put Starting therapy on my list, but I wanted the list to stand on its own. Aunt Izzy got me an appointment in Yellow Springs with this woman Giulia Florio. Her first name is pronounced Julia but it’s spelled that gorgeous Italian way. She’s freakishly tall, but stunning, with his huge beaky nose that makes her look exotic, and crazy hair with wild messy curls.
    I liked her.
    That surprised me. I went prepared to hate her. I’d hoped that maybe there’d be some magic cure, something Giulia would do or say to “fix” me right away. I’d been shocked that she’d hardly even mentioned bulimia the first couple of times. (I had gone eight days in a row. That was “highly unusual” my aunt and Giulia both told me, but since we were leaving the country, “these were extenuating circumstances.”)
    For the first few appointments, I actually felt guilty knowing how much they cost, when all Dr. Giulia did was talk about things I liked to do and asked about things I thought I was good at. We drank chai and chatted about my cities and running. We talked a lot about my mom and dad, but it wasn’t until the fourth visit that she brought up bulimia at all.
    At first, I didn’t even know she was getting to the bulimia. She stood up and said, “Humor me a moment, okay? We’re going to do a little experiment. Could you crawl under my desk please?”
    I was like What? but she was smiling. “It’s kind of a game. Just go with it.”
    So I got on my hands and knees and stuck my head and shoulders in the nook where her legs usually went. “Okay,” I said. “Am I looking for something?”
    “No,” her voice floated down to me. “But try to actually fit in there, all right?”
    “Uh, okay.” I had my doubts, but I jammed myself in. I had to hug my knees to my chest and keep my head sideways on my knees. There was no way to relax.
    Then, to make it more bizarre, Dr. Giulia said, “Excellent. Now I’m going to try to fit my chair in place, okay?”
    Was she nuts? There was no way! The chair pressed against me. A cramp started in my hamstring. My neck ached.
    “Comfortable?” she called.
    “Uh…no. Not at all.” I wasn’t laughing anymore. It was obvious I didn’t fit.
    She pulled the chair away and crouched down to look at me. “Really?” she said. She asked it sincerely too. “You don’t like this?”
    “No. Can I come out now?”
    “Of course you can.” She gave me a hand up.
    As we stood there, looking down at the space, she said, “That’s the prison you made for yourself with bulimia. Trying to fit yourself into a space that’s too small.”
    I looked at the nook under her desk, then up at her face. I felt dizzy.
    “But the most important thing is, you admitted you wanted to come out.”
    Okay, okay, cheesy, I know, but it actually made me get teary-eyed.
    “Your life has become reduced to this.” She gestured to that tiny hole I’d crammed myself in. “You define yourself this way. Remember how you told me you hated it when your mom became a ‘sick person’? How she became to everyone ‘a woman with cancer’ instead of interesting, talented Annabeth, your mom? Well, the same thing has happened to you, but you’re doing it to yourself. Your world has gotten so small with all you’ve given up to do this.”
    She had Aunt Izzy and I make a pact of total honesty before we left the country. I couldn’t lie or hide a binge if one happened. Or, rather, when one happened. She assured me they would happen, and that I was to “treat myself with compassion” when they did. My binges, she said, were “a substitute for confronting painful feelings,” just like my dad’s drinking. Both my dad and I had to work to find healthier ways to