I didn’t like the way the psychiatrist told me to take my hands away from my mouth and answer his question. I hadn’t meant to be rude. I was only 14. What did I know about manners?

Well, according to my brother I should know enough to listen and keep my hands at my side. “He’s trying to help you,” my brother said. “Just play along.”
So the psychiatrist asked me who my friends were when I said I had friends (only after he said I didn’t have any). I should have just let the doctor win.
So when he said “Who?” I just stared at him and ran through possible names. The last kid I’d said two words to was almost a year ago and that was only because he’d dropped his pencil. I was a true loner.
So I made up a name. I said “Penelope Williams.” Penelope had always been my favorite name.

The doctor wrote down my answer in his notepad. Suddenly I felt sorry more sorry for Penelope, who did not exist than for me, who did.

That was a real breakthrough. For me at least.