BUMP: A Cautionary Tale

Chapter One

The First Trimester

Chapter One

I've never understood why people like diamonds so much. It's not like they're unique, or groundbreaking or anything. I wonder if people even realize that the multi-thousand-dollar gem on their fingers or in their ears or sitting on their chest was most likely not found in the caves of Africa, but instead created by a scientist somewhere in China, engineered to be without flaw, beautifully mundane. It breaks my heart because what about all of the other gems out there? What about rubies, emeralds, and pearls? Pearls come in all different colors - some even have multiple colors inside them. So why the obsession with diamonds? Because they're expensive, traditional, or prestigious for some reason?

I am like a consumer-grade diamond.

I'm nothing special in and of myself. I am talented, but only in the "traditional" sense, only because I was trained to be. I am beautiful, but only because I pay to be. I am expensive, but only because my mother markets me to be.

Why then, do people care about my whereabouts? Why do they care who I'm dating, or what I'm wearing? I'm just as beautiful as the next brown-eyed, bleached and toned blonde girl of average height and above average metabolism.

My life has been a series of camera flashes and saying "Yes, of course" to my mother. Doing whatever she wanted me to do. Climbing the ladder of Fame. Becoming unrecognizable to myself - mainly because I was never allowed to have an identity in the first place. I hate her for that.

"Cressida?"

I look up from my twiddling thumbs, up from my criss-crossed legs that are nestled onto the very uncomfortable brown leather couch. The air is too stale here for anyone to feel comfortable. I don't know how she expects anyone to come in here and feel like it's a "safe space."

"Cressida, do you need me to repeat the question?"

"No," I quickly answer. I look her, my therapist, in the eye. My mom thinks that this is going to fix things. She thinks this is going to make me "feel myself" again. I wonder if there's a window I can climb out of.

My therapist - I think her name's Janine or something like that - smiles at me, pity dripping from the corners of her mouth. She thinks I'm broken. I'm not broken. I'm just stunted.

"It's okay if you're uncomfortable," Janine says, raising one corner of her mouth. She sounds like she's from New York, or maybe Boston. "Most people are when they first start therapy. It's okay. This is a - "

"Safe space, I know," I regurgitated the phrase I had heard millions of times before. "I know you're not going to judge me and I know you can't tell my mom about anything that I say here - I know about therapist/patient confidentiality. I'm well aware of these things." I look back down at my bouncing knees.

"You're a smart girl. Did your research I see," Janine chuckles a little bit. "Let's just get started, shall we? What brings you in today?" It's the same question she asked before.

I sigh.

"My mom," I answer.

"Okay," she says, nodding. The black bun on top of her head bounces around with her. "And why did your mom think that this was a good step for you? Do you have an idea?"

I inhale, deep, and wonder what all I should say. Should I tell her about my nightmares? My lack of real friends, besides Molly? Or should I tell her about Aaron?

"Well," I started, "my mom thinks that I've been having a hard time."

Janine squints her eyes intently; she's listening to me, hanging on every word. She's trying to analyze me - diagnose me. I'll probably walk out of here with a personality disorder.