You Need Help

I'm sitting on my desk, feet on the chair, hunched forward to avoid my bunked bed. My roommate is cross-legged in the papasan chair. She's hunched a little, like she doesn't really want to have this conversation. But she did agree with me that it's necessary. She is here. It just means that I'll have to take point.

I wipe my palms on my jeans and take a deep breath. Our suite-mate is standing in the middle of the room. Her arms are crossed. She's already on the defensive. She knows what this is about.

"Um, do you want to sit?" She raises an eyebrow, not impressed with my attempt to put off the conversation now that I've dragged her in here. My roommate remains silent.

I take a deep breath. "Look, we're just worried about you." That gets a snort. "I heard you in the bathroom this morning. And it wasn't the first time. We care about you. We want you to get help."

She glares at me. My roommate chimes in that she heard the puking, too, and the glare is turned on her.

"This is rich. So you've just decided to single me out?"

"What? That's not it at all!" I protest, standing to meet her. "We're just worried. And we're here for you if you need to talk. But we were hoping you might agree to talk to a counselor or something."

The intervention really did seem like a good idea when we came up with it. And we thought it would go over better with just the three of us. Things have been falling apart all semester. I was sure this would help us heal, become closer. I thought it was a good thing I was doing.

My friend does not agree, and before I know it, I'm the one on the defensive. She's says we have no idea what we're talking about, it isn't anywhere near as bad as we seem to think it is, it isn't any of our business anyway. I protest and equivocate and try to bring the discussion back around to the point which is that she needs help.

Which is when she plays her trump card.

"I need help? Well I'm not the only one. You're such a goddamned hypocrite, cutting yourself and telling me I'm the one who needs help."

That silences me. It would silence my roommate if she'd been anything but an observer.

"You think I didn't know? I'm not as stupid as you think I am. Stop using me to make you feel better about yourself."

There's nothing to say to that. Nothing that wouldn't escalate the argument even further. I spin around, grab my keys and phone from the desk and leave the room, slamming the door as hard as I can behind me.

My rage is white hot. She reversed our positions so effectively, that I'm suddenly running through all the things she was screaming at me only minutes before, mentally screaming them back at her. She has no idea; none at all.

Except maybe she does. Maybe I am a hypocrite, demanding that she seek help when I refuse to seek any for myself. Confronting her didn't help, but could leading by example?

I've hardly made the decision when I find myself outside the office of the school's counselor. I use the momentum of my rage to knock on the door, make an appointment. Then I call my mom and confess everything. It's an insurance policy of sorts; she'll make sure I keep the appointment.

By the time I hang up the phone, I've managed to wander into a corner of the campus I hadn't found before, with benches and a fountain and orange trees. I stay for a while longer. The bubbling water helps calm me down. In fact, I'm calmer than I've been in months. The intervention backfired, but maybe it wasn't a total loss.