“What were you in counseling for before?”
“Generalized anxiety disorder. Depression. Panic attacks. I still take Ativan sometimes.” Sometimes. Ha. I popped one before getting into Benji’s truck.
“Does it help?”
“Yeah.” Is she really going to waste my time debating whether or not a prescription for anxiety helps my anxiety?
“What other techniques do you use?”
I sigh loudly to let her know I’m over the conversation already. “Visualization. Breathing. Exercise.” Well, two out of three isn’t bad.
“Good. And is your anxiety getting better?”
“Yes.” I twist one loose curl around my middle finger. My lie sinks into the oriental area rug and permeates the room.
“Good.” She pauses for a good thirty seconds. “Then why do you still need the Ativan?”
The lining of my stomach sinks to my sneakers. Don’t you dare, lady. “For emergencies. Panic attacks.”
She nods. “Do you consider what happened to Dan Tatterwort an emergency?”
Was that his last name? “Yeah.” I cross my arms over my chest and keep twisting my hair tighter and tighter.
“Why?”
How do I answer that question? What am I supposed to say? That he vanished into a cosmic abyss and almost brought me with him?
I shrug.
“Let me rephrase. Have you been feeling anxiety since Dan left?”
I can’t help it—a loud, rude, obnoxious, uncontrollable snort escapes me, and my mouth lets loose.
“In case you haven’t noticed, lady, there are alien holograms with vertexes across the planet, telling us the world is coming to an end, and some drunk guy tried to throw me in.” My voice starts to waver, and my laughter loses its edge. “And then he tripped and actually fell into God knows where? And he almost took me with him.” My voice booms louder than I expect. A ball of fear rises in my throat, traveling from my heart to my brain.
“Has there ever been another time where you felt your physical being was in danger like that?”
I shake my head no, but my throat constricts, my heart takes over all brain functions, and tears escape my face. Traitors.
She repeats. “Has there ever been another time where you felt your physical being was in danger?”
Usually counselors wait a few sessions, try to establish a relationship of trust. I don’t even know her, and she’s hitting the nail on the proverbial head on the first wild pitch. I want to fight her on her methods, but the emotions rush out of me before I can stop them. My hands and body shake and shake like I’ve been pulled from icy waters. My throat closes as my father’s hands lock around my neck in the attic that night.
She hands me a box of tissues. “We have all day if you need it.”
After the session, Benji and I drive home in silence. I’m angry at him and kind of grateful. Those two feelings don’t mix well. The grateful side serves as fuel for the anger in a strange loop. It means he has helped me, and I am indebted to him. It sits like a burning rock in my stomach, a rock that I wish I could vomit and then throw at his smug face.
Benji drops me off. Dad’s car isn’t in the driveway, but I spot Rita’s car parked out front. All I want to do is crawl back into bed.
Mom stops me on the way to my room.
“Rita’s here,” she says, wiping her hands on a towel. “She’s waiting in your room. I’m making dinner. You must be starving.”
“Why is Rita here?”
“I invited her.”
Good old Mom, sweeping things under that silent, mental health rug of ours.
As I head down the hallway, I try to remember the condition I left my bedroom in. It’s a blur.
Rita’s sitting in my purple saucer chair surrounded by piles of laundry, empty food container, and moldy cups.
“You’re alive,” Rita says.
“Alive and kicking.” I collapse on my bed and wish I could sleep the rest of the day away.
“Missed you at school. Your mom said you went to see a counselor. That’s good.”
“Yeah, the counselor’s nice. She gave me a medical excuse for missing classes, too.”
“Good. You know it isn’t your fault.”
“What isn’t?”
“If I hadn’t invited you out . . .”
I sit up and poke her shoulder with my sneaker. “Stop it. It wasn’t your fault. You were only being a good friend and trying to get me out of the house. Even if you also just wanted to spend time with Nathan. You couldn’t have known Dan was that much of an idiot.”
She smiles unconvincingly. “Nathan is old news. Turned into a jerk per the usual.” She glances around. “No offense, but your room is rank. You want help cleaning? It would help me with my guilt.”
After a quick peek at the garbage piled around my bed, I face facts. I need to be more honest with myself. I need to learn to accept help from people. I hold so many feelings down deep that they seem to go haywire at the wrong time. Maybe if I learn to let them out at the right time, my system will reset itself.
“Sure,” I say, “if it’ll help your guilt.”
Together we get my room in order. I take garbage and dish duty while she gathers and sorts laundry. At the bottom of one pile, she finds a framed picture of Dominick holding up one of the fish we caught.
“You buried Dominick?” she asks, raising one eyebrow.
On seeing his smile in the photograph, a wave of emotion hits me that I have been keeping at bay.
“Don’t know why you let him go,” she states. “He’s a catch, pun intended.”
I shake my head and chuckle at her bad fishing joke, and I wipe a stray tear. Why did I sabotage the strongest relationship in my life? Because he cared? Because he’d sacrifice anything for me? Was I afraid that I would have to change to be enough for him?
“I told Dominick I want to stay here for college, and I want him to go to Boston.”
“Since when?” She stuffs an armful of T-shirts into my hamper.
“That’s why he’s not talking to me. He offered to stay here, too, and I said no.”
“Wait, why do you want to stay?”
I shrug. She whistles low and long while tossing a white sock into the pile.
“Alex, listen. I’ve known you forever. If you suddenly want to stay here for college, you really are screwed up.” She sits on the corner of my bed. “What happened to becoming a kick-ass lawyer and taking Boston by storm? Leaving your family that stresses you out? You said that your father randomly goes wild or numb, and your mother is pathetic and naïve about it. Never mind how much Benji tortures you, which I cannot believe with a face that gorgeous. Why would you want to stay here when Dominick”—she picks up the picture and shoves it into my hands—“brings out the light in you?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “But I can’t see physically separating myself from them. I can’t do it. And I don’t want to stop Dominick from going to school in Boston.”
“Just promise me,” she says and hands me a tissue from my bureau, “that you will at least apply to some Boston schools. Keep both options open in case you change your mind.”
I nod. She means well, but she doesn’t understand the hold Dad has on me. Like a tractor beam in Star Trek, pulling a ship out of its journey to safety. There’s a pull inside of me, and I cannot break the connection.
Over the next month and a half, Arianna and I meet on a weekly basis. She explains that what happened when I was younger with Dad has gotten stuck inside of me, and I react to other situations as if that event is happening again. The vertex incident with Dan only made it worse. She does a form of therapy called EMDR. By following a back-and-forth pattern either with your eyes or by tapping your legs or arms and thinking of a traumatic memory, you can rewire your brain to deal with it with less and less fear and
pain. It sounded like bullshit to me at first, but somehow it works.
Arianna taught me how to do EMDR to myself in moments when I feel major fear about something. It’s not a cure for anxiety since anxiety can be environmental and genetic, but it will help me to manage it. If my panic attacks continue, she also recommends taking an antidepressant. Certain ones can be super effective at eliminating panic attacks. I’d rather not go that route if I don’t have to because the last time I took them, they made me feel terrible. My Ativan prescription gets to stay, but I’m noticing that I don’t need it as much anymore. I can’t believe I didn’t get this kind of therapy sooner. It’s like superglue for the cracks inside of me.
"How's school going?" Arianna asks. “Did you bring your grades up?”
“School’s been fine. Boring, actually.”
“Boring’s good. How’s your anxiety? Have you been exercising? Breathing?”
Of course I’ve been breathing. Otherwise, I’d be dead. “Yes, I’ve been walking around the block after school.”
“Good. And how’s the situation at home?”
I take a deep breath. “My dad’s avoiding me by working longer hours. He’s drinking more, too. I triggered him again. I’m keeping my distance until I can pull myself back together.”
“Wait, it’s not your fault. You are allowed to need help. You are both different people.”
I nod and stare at my hands.
“Alex, you are not your father. You are not responsible for your father. You are only responsible for yourself.”
I nod, but deep inside I know that’s not true. I’m his daughter. I’m supposed to care about him. Look out for him. I think about Benji, and how he doesn’t seem to care like I do. How he can just move on with his life.
“I’ve been wondering how come other people can cope better than I can. Am I just a weak person?”
She smiles. “No, you’re not weak at all. You’re sensitive. Sensitive people are some of the most caring, creative, greatest thinkers of our time. Sensitivity is only a weakness if you let it be. You have to learn to see your sensitivity as strength. Sensitive people can see through fakeness. They spot problems others overlook. And while they desperately seek to help others, when they feel threatened or hopeless, they have trouble processing the stress. But that doesn’t mean you are weak. It means you are human. The world needs sensitive people like you to stay in balance.”
I consider her words.
“I feel so out of control when my negative thoughts take over and start looping and my body reacts. How can I turn that into a strength?”
“How about this: have you ever heard of a mantra? Like a catchphrase? Memorize the line: Don’t get tricked by a thought. Got it? Don’t get tricked by a thought. Try saying that to yourself when you have an irrational thought.”
Seems too easy. “I’ll try it.”
“Also, some people find it useful to write in a journal when their brain feels overwhelmed. You could try writing all of your thoughts and feelings down. Don’t worry about grammar or spelling. Just free write, scribble, doodle, whatever. You can even take it a step further and slam the book shut to swish those big feelings into mere flat words on a page. Takes the power away. Or rip or burn the pages. Thoughts are meaningless, fleeting, random ideas with no power unless you give them power.”
“I have a journal that I use sometimes.” Understatement of the century.
“Good. Keep that up if it’s working for you. Also, exercise. Exercise is a powerful stress management tool. Following a healthy plan for managing your symptoms is the first step to becoming your strongest self.” She pauses, then asks, “Have you started applying to colleges? That’s always a stressful time for seniors.”
“Not yet.” I think about what Dominick and Rita said to me. I’m still not ready to face that decision.
On Halloween weekend, I take a bus to my new job at the Techno café. I enter the restaurant and try to sneak by Xavier, the manager, but the bell over the door gives me away.
“You’re a half hour early. Keep it up and you’ll be a manager in no time.”
“Great,” I mumble. “More responsibility.” Arianna thought a job would be good for me seeing as I feel out of control in crowded spaces. Face my anxiety.
So far so good. It’s been a week.
I take orders from college students, professors, and elderly folk. Most of them only want coffee or cappuccinos to sit and chat over. I hate coffee. I don’t understand how so many people could be addicted to the diarrhea-colored liquid. It tastes like dirt. Plus, I’d be up all night between the caffeine and insomnia. But I’m happy to serve it, as long as the tips help me save for college and distract my brain from overreacting.
Minutes turn to hours, and soon most of the customers leave. I work until 6:00, and around 5:30 the manager tells me to refill the napkin dispensers. I hear the bell over the glass door ring, which means I have to serve another customer before I leave if I want the tip. Great. I slowly push a handful of napkins forward onto the springed metal platform inside the dispenser. Without looking up, I ask, “Coffee?”
A familiar male voice answers, “Nope. Just you. And maybe a jelly doughnut.”
Dominick sits at the counter. Oh God, I forgot how good he looks when he smiles at me. I bet he feels better than I remember, too.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, trying not to smile. “How’d you know where I work?” I hand him a doughnut wrapped in wax paper.
“Rita demanded that we follow through on our Halloween pact for senior year. Said you forgot about it with everything going on. She’s waiting in my car.”
He takes a bite of doughnut, leaving a trace of powdered sugar on his bottom lip. “She’s been worried about you.”
“Were you worried about me?” I hand him a napkin.
He grins. “Not falling for that one. I’m here because it’s Halloween, and we have a tradition.”
I laugh. “Seriously?”
“Completely. And I still want to know why you were with that guy.” He licks his thumb and pointer finger clean.
My manager clears his throat. I start filling salt shakers. “Jealous much? We aren’t even together anymore.”
His smile fades. I meant to say it in a flirty tone.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. The guy thing wasn’t my fault. Okay, so it was partly my fault. I tried to avoid him, but he wanted me to poke the hologram.”
We stare at each other, and then we crack up laughing. The manager clears his throat again.
I move to the next table and pick up a pile of napkins. Dominick stands awkwardly, fidgeting with his hands in his pockets. The bell over the glass door pierces the silence as a mustached stranger strolls into the café and sits at the counter. I take his order for a cup of coffee and a bagel. While my back is turned to toast the bagel, I hear the bell ring again. I turn around to see if I have more last-minute customers only to discover that Dominick is gone, his cash left on the counter.
Every particle in my body screams to go after him. He drove here, found me at work. I need him back in my life. But I also need to be protective of myself and learn to be in control of my emotions. I just started getting myself on the right track, trusting my own instincts. Yet there’s something about Dominick that fills me with peace instead of worry. I just don’t want to fill him with a sense of burden.
My heart bangs against my ribs to escape, and I can’t stop thinking about running out the door, chasing after him, and screaming his name down a lamppost lit alley. Dominick! Dominick, wait! And he’d turn around in slow motion like in a corny romantic film, and we would speed toward each other and embrace in one swoop and kiss. Oh, and kiss the most juiciest kiss known in the history of romantic moments captured forever in books and movies. And then it would downpour, of course. But no, I’m not that kind of girl. I can’t take risks in
love or life. They backfire. Besides, this is real life, and I still have customers.
By the time I leave the restaurant, a giant knot gnaws at my stomach. I made the wrong decision. I should’ve gone after Dominick when I had the chance. Why do I keep sabotaging my chances with him? I whip out my phone, but before I can even type a message, Dominick’s familiar black Ford Fusion, his father’s old car, pulls up beside me with Rita in the passenger seat.
He stayed.
“I thought you left,” I say as I hop in the backseat. The TARDIS air freshener that I gave him still dangles from the rearview mirror.
Dominick explains from the driver’s seat. “Your manager kept giving me dirty looks, so I thought I should wait outside.”
Rita throws a plastic bag at me. “You didn’t think we’d forget you? It’s Halloween. It’s our tradition.”
Inside the bag is a short-haired ginger wig, a robe, and a wand. I stick the wig on my head and throw the robe over my clothes. Freshman year, the three of us unanimously wanted to dress up for Halloween like Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, and Ron Weasley. Only we all wanted to be Harry, and none of us wanted to be Ron. Dominick had argued that he should get to be Harry since he’s a guy, and that Rita and I should just both be Hermione since we’re girls. That gender logic was never going to fly with us. Everyone wants an equal chance at being the hero. We compromised and made a pact. Every Halloween we would rotate characters. I thought we were done since Dominick and I aren’t together, but apparently I was wrong. Thank you, Rita.
Rita places a pair of dark plastic glasses on her nose. My red wig itches. Dominick tosses on a long, brown haired wig.
“Dude, you are the ugliest Hermione ever ,” Rita says, cracking up. I giggle along with her, and Dominick turns to grin at me. His shadow of facial hair combined with the bad Hermione wig and his glasses turns my laughter into snorting.
“With that wig and your glasses, you kinda look like a strung-out Harry.” Rita and I both get louder and more hysterical.
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