"No. You're not. You weren't in the first place,"
 
“Everyone seems to think I am. I’m being forced to see a therapist,” she deadpanned, raising her brow. Why else would she have to see a therapist. “Maybe I am crazy,” Brigitte said, staring off, thinking back to the beginning of the year when had freaked Walt out on the staircase.
 
The first thought Brigitte had when she was given the hot tea was that she could totally burn herself with it, get the pain that way, but she didn’t. That’s not how she deal with this. She dealt with it using a different kind of pain. So instead she took a sip of it, her heart beat and her hands shaking.
 
"….I've been here long enough to watch many a girl  - and blokes for that matter - not be in the least bit aware that the other of their half broke up with them.”
 
Brigitte looked away. “So I get to join the ranks of other idiots. Brilliant.” There was so much going on in her head about that. How she had not thought that Ephraim would really mean it. Not thinking that he would move on so quickly. Brigitte sighed and ran a hand through her tangled hair. “Cliff was right about Ephraim. He did just want a shag.” She had more of her tea, wincing, not even liking bringing her brother up.
 
“And I can guarantee that writing in a notebook is not something that is reserved merely for girls who cut themselves,"
 
She added the sugar, normally never even trying it without any but right now any food tasted the same bland flavor. “Most girls aren’t forced to write in a journal to keep themselves from cutting themselves,” she pointed out. Madam Pomfrey could compare her to nice, sane girls all they wanted, but they both knew that she had issues.
 
“I’m so tired,” she finally said quietly, scrubbing at her forehead with her fingers. “I’m so sick of…everything.”

06c155406099f5cf3f6153d23d18293b12a7ea6.