Chapter 3

On the seventh day of writing in my journal, I threw up during my midterm exam.

The moment the test papers were handed out, the sounds in the classroom suddenly felt miles away.

The proctor's footsteps, the rustling of paper, the morning announcements outside the window. It all blurred into one messy hum.

All I could hear was my own heartbeat, hammering harder and faster against my ribs until it physically hurt.

Ms. Jenkins helped me out into the hallway and called my mom.

Thirty minutes later, my mom rushed into the school.

Ms. Jenkins said, "She looks really pale. Maybe she should go home for the day."

"No need."

My mom pulled the folded evaluation report out of her purse.

She had been carrying it everywhere lately; the edges were already frayed and creased.

"We just got her checked out a few days ago. The results were perfect. She throws up right when the midterms start? What a coincidence."

A few students who had come out to the hallway to get water stopped to look. They glanced at the report, then at me.

Ms. Jenkins lowered her voice. "It could just be academic stress."

My mom's eyes instantly welled with tears.

"Stress? She's the only one with stress? I sacrificed my entire life to care for her, and the moment she claimed she had a mental illness, I dragged her to get tested immediately!"

"The results are right here. Black and white. She is NOT sick! And now she's putting on another show. What more does she want from me?"

I stood frozen. My classmates' stares felt like needles pricking my skin.

I remembered the last time. It was also during an exam. I felt so suffocated that I ran out of the testing room.

The first thing she did when she arrived was slap me across the face in front of everyone.

"Everyone else is perfectly fine! Why do you always have to be the difficult one?"

When I said I felt sick, she called it a cry for attention. When I said my heart was beating too fast, she said I was just trying to escape the test.

So this time, she turned to me and demanded.

"Can you take the test or not?"

I nodded.

"Yes."

My mom finally let out a sigh of relief.

"See? She said it herself. She can do it."

I was sent back into the classroom.

As I walked past the back row, someone whispered.

"Wait, didn't she say she had depression?"

Another kid smirked.

"Depression? Please. Her mom literally brought a medical report. She's just faking it."

They giggled behind their hands.

I sat back in my seat and picked up my pen.

The words on the test paper swirled together. I had to copy them down letter by letter.

But I still couldn't hold on.

That afternoon, Ms. Jenkins called me into her office.

My mom was already sitting there.

My exam was laid out on the desk, more than half of it left completely blank.

My mom didn't look at me. She grabbed Ms. Jenkins' hand, her tears falling fast.

"Ms. Jenkins, you have no idea how hard this is for me."

"She said she had issues, and I immediately booked the best doctor. Now that the results are out, she's still doing this."

"I honestly don't know what else to do to make her happy."

The other teachers in the office turned to look at us.

Someone handed my mom a tissue.

Ms. Jenkins sighed.

"You really do have it rough."

She turned her gaze to me.

"Your mom cares about you so much, Maya. You need to grow up and be more understanding."

I nodded.

"I'm sorry, Mom. It's my fault."

When we got home, my mom took a photo of the unfinished exam and posted it into the Snapchat family group chat.

"Threw up during midterms today and left the paper blank. The moment an exam starts, she starts throwing tantrums again."

Aunt Mary quickly replied.

"She's just making excuses. You need to be stricter with her."

Uncle John wrote.

"Zero resilience. Amber has always been so strong and independent. How did she raise such a weakling?"

My dad sent the final text.

"She's clearly letting her mind wander because she has too much privacy. From now on, don't let her lock her door. Stop letting her spend time alone."

That night, my dad walked into my bedroom carrying a toolbox.

One by one, the screws fell to the carpet.

I stood by the bed, watching my door being lifted off its hinges.

My mom stood outside the doorway, her arms crossed.

"You only get these dark thoughts because you isolate yourself too much."

"The last time you threw a fit and demanded a door, we let it slide. But now that you're doing this again, we won't tolerate it anymore."

I was trembling, my fingers tightly gripping the empty door frame.

It felt like the very last line of defense in my mind was being violently ripped away.

I wanted to beg her. But my mind was immediately flooded with the hurtful things she would say, and how she would cry about how everything was "for my own good."

Thinking of that, my voice died in my throat.

From that day on, I could never close my door again.

When I changed my clothes, I had to huddle deep under my blankets.

When I couldn't sleep at night, I didn't even dare to toss and turn.

My mom would walk past my doorway every few minutes, checking to see if I was secretly crying.

At 3:00 AM that night, she stood at my doorway for the fourth time.

I heard her whisper to my dad.

"Look how quiet she is now."

"We should have done this a long time ago. We spoiled her too much before."