The Forever of Ella and Micha

smile’s a little bit too shiny, if you ask me. The woman’s carrying the little girl and they both look happy too. Although, I don’t get why they’re so damn happy. They’re just getting their damn picture taken.”
    She accidentally creases the corners of the photo when she puts it into her folder. “Did your mother or father ever hug you like that? Or do you remember being that happy when you were a kid?”
    It’s like she’s asked me a pre-calculus question and my mind muddles at the complexity. “No, but that stuff’s not real. It’s fake, for show purposes to make people feel good when they look at the picture frame.”
    “No, Ella, it’s real. Happiness does exist,” she answers sadly. “Now, things aren’t always that way, but families should have their happy moments and children should get hugged and feel loved.”
    “I did—do—feel loved.” I massage the sides of my temples, feeling as though a concrete block has been dropped onto my chest. “I’ve been hugged… a few times.”
    “A few times in the last twenty years?” she asks, stressing her point. “Because that doesn’t seem like a lot.”
    “I’ve been hugged plenty of times,” I say, offended. “Micha hugs me all the time.”
    “Again, we go back to Micha. Let’s exclude him from this conversation for a minute and focus on your family.” She scribbles a few notes down in the notebook. “Did your parents ever hug you? Laugh with you? Take family trips?”
    “We went to the zoo once when I was six, but my mom was bipolar and couldn’t do a lot with us. And my dad… well, he loved his Jack Daniels.” I pause as anger simmers at the tip of my tongue. “What are you getting at?”
    “I’m not trying to get at anything,” she responds kindly, clicking the cap back onto the pen. “I’m just trying to let you see your life.”
    “That it’s crazy—that I’m crazy? Because I already knew that, without the recap of my shitty life.” My hands tremble and my palms sweat at harsh memories that make up my life. I begin to hyperventilate and my vision spots.
    “Take a deep breath,” she instructs, waving her hand in front of her chest in a cleansing gesture and I obey. “Now, you’re not crazy, Ella. You’ve just had a rough life.”
    My brain pounds inside my skull. “Then what does this have to do with anxiety or depression or whatever it is you think’s wrong with me?”
    “I think that sometimes you don’t think you deserve to have a good life—that you’re not a good person. That you don’t deserve to be loved.” She shuts a folder, stacks it with a small pile, and overlaps her hands on top of the desk. “And I think that’s why you push people away and what’s causing a lot of the depression and anxiety.”
    I flop my head back against the wall. “I’m this way because my mom died and it was my fault. I’m this way because I know my head’s screwed up and I don’t want to drag anyone down with me.”
    “All those things you said aren’t true,” she says and I lift my head back up. “And our goal here is to get you to believe that.”
    We talk a little bit more about lighter stuff, like how my classes are going and what my plans are for Christmas. When my time’s up I go back to the apartment.
    Lila’s not home from class yet and it’s quiet. I grab a Dr. Pepper from the fridge and take the phone out of my pocket, staring at the picture on the screensaver of Micha, Lila, Ethan, and me at the wedding.
    “I look happy there,” I say determinedly and then I dial Micha’s number.
    “You called back,” he answers after two rings. “Ethan owes me twenty bucks.”
    I chew on my thumbnail. “He bet I wasn’t going to call you back?”
    “He bet you’d blow me off.” He lets out his fake evil laugh. “That the Stepford Wife Ella had returned.”
    “Nope, no Stepford Wife Ella here.” I tap the top of my soda and flip the tab open. “Only a confused one.”
    He stops laughing. “Do you want to talk about it?”
    “No, not really.” I sigh exhaustedly and swallow a sip of the soda.
    He gives a lengthened pause. “Ella, friends can talk to each other about stuff they’re going through.”
    “I know that.” I set the soda on the counter and plop down into a barstool. “But I just spent the last hour talking to my therapist about it and I’d rather take a break from my own head, if that makes any sense.”
    “It makes perfect sense.” He hesitates momentarily, like