Warning: This article contains mentions of suicidal ideation that may be triggering for some readers.

She’s funny. Not in a ha-ha funny way. But in this unusual, overly earnest kind of way.

Her voice is more like a whisper. I imagine when she gets angry, no one knows because she sounds like she’s just… well… talking.

But I connect with her. We’re both passionate about spiritual seeking and holistic therapies. She’s a good listener and gives great hugs. I need a comrade.

We’re sitting at a shiny wooden table on hard wooden chairs at the north end of the market on Granville Island. Windows on every side. Sun flooding in. It’s bright, massively bright.

An oversized painted parrot hangs from the rafters scrutinizing us from above. We sip overpriced cappuccinos topped with swirly designs of hearts or Big Bird or some sh*t like that. I’m desperate, terribly sad, fed up, and needy. It’s embarrassing.

Lottie (short for Charlotte) is my nurse friend. My very spiritual, very nursey nurse kind of friend. Progressive too. She thinks energy work ("healing touch") should be in every hospital. She managed to actually bring it into some hospitals.

I stare at her. She knows stuff that I don’t. I know she does. She’s older, calmer, wiser. She has answers to things I don’t. Answers I think will be my salvation.

I’m so fully uncomfortable in my skin right now. My body feels electric,........

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