I was failing my PhD.

If I had explained to my supervisor, Dr. Runciman, why I was unable
to work, he would have helped me, would have secured additional
funding, petitioned the department for more time. But I didn’t explain,
I couldn’t. He had no idea why it had been nearly a year since I’d sent
him work, so when we met in his office one overcast July afternoon, he
suggested that I quit.

“The PhD is exceptionally demanding,” he said. “It’s okay if you can’t
do it.”

I left his office full of fury at myself. I went to the library and
gathered half a dozen books, which I lugged to my room and arranged
on my desk. But my mind was made nauseous by rational thought, and
by the next morning the books had moved to my bed, where they
propped up my laptop while I worked steadily through Buffy the
Vampire Slayer.

—

THAT AUTUMN, TYLER CONFRONTED my father. He talked to Mother first,
on the phone. He called me after and related their conversation. He
said Mother was “on our side,” that she thought the situation with
Shawn was unacceptable and had convinced Dad to do something.
“Dad is taking care of it,” Tyler said. “Everything is going to be fine.
You can come home.”

My phone rang again two days later, and I paused Buffy to answer it.
It was Tyler. The whole thing had exploded in his face. He had felt
uneasy after his conversation with Mother, so he had called Dad to see
exactly what was being done about Shawn. Dad had become angry,