fit.
Her office is decorated in soothing tans and whites with splashes or pops of blues and oranges that catch the eye. And yes, there is actually a couch but there are comfy chairs as well. I’ve been seeing a therapist now for the last nine months and in all that time, I have never stretched out on a couch or stared at ink blots.
Although, I suppose I could have if I’d wanted to.
Being a creature of habit, I always pick the same chair. I’m sure that says something about me but I have yet to ask. Dr. Thompson usually sits directly across from me with a notebook close at hand in case she wants to jot down a few notes. In the beginning, I used to find that disconcerting- I just wanted to take a quick little peek to see what she was writing about me, but now it seems normal. Okay… I’m not going to lie, I still want to take a peek at that notebook.
Once we’re both settled, Dr. Thompson starts off our session just like she always does. There’s some measure of comfort in our established routine that instantly calms my frayed nerves.
“So, tell me how this week has been going for you.” Her kind eyes hold mine as if she is genuinely interested in my answer.
Taking a deep breath, I quietly push out the dreaded words. “I had an anxiety attack last Thursday night.”
I can tell this catches her off guard by the way her narrow brows quickly draw together. She knows this is the first episode I’ve experienced here at school. It’s actually the first one I’ve had in a really long time. Months. Another wave of apprehension washes over me because I’m absolutely terrified of backsliding. I’m terrified of tumbling back down into that yawning pit of despair I only recently crawled out of.
“Okay, so tell me exactly what happened, Cassidy.” Her words are calm, soothing. In response, I instantly feel myself begin to relax again. If there’s someone who can help me through this, it’s Dr. Thompson.
Nodding, I slowly recount everything that occurred Thursday night. I tell her about my interaction with Alex and then with Cole.
“Had you been drinking at all? Even a tiny sip?” Her words aren’t censorious, merely curious. Like me, she’s simply trying to get to the bottom of what triggered the attack.
“Just diet cola.” I haven’t had a sip of alcohol in more than nine months. Not since that night…
She gives me a small smile before jotting down a few notes. “Just making sure.”
I nod, feeling the anxiety of that night thread its way through my body before slowly rolling over me like a massive wave. I don’t want to let it suck me back under again but I don’t know how to stop it from happening.
“So, he grabbed your upper arm from behind and spun you towards him,” she clarifies quietly.
“Yes,” hearing her describe it like that has me actually feeling as if my throat is closing up, as if I can’t suck in enough oxygen. As if I’m being strangled from the inside out. Eyes widening, my hands are suddenly clawing at my neck as if that will somehow loosen the pressure.
“Cassidy, I want you to look at me,” her words are firm but still soothing. My eyes fly helplessly to hers. “You’re safe in this office. Everything is fine. We’re going to work through this together. Okay?”
Unable to utter a single word in response, I simply nod my head.
“Now, I want you to close your eyes and relax into the chair.”
When I don’t immediately comply, she explains, “We’re going to engage in some breathing exercises to help calm you down, alright?”
Jerking my head in response, I lean back, squeezing my eyes tightly shut as the soothing timbre of Dr. Thompson’s deep voice washes over me. Any moment I’m going to start hyperventilating and totally lose it.
“I want you to focus on taking slow deep breaths. Inhale through your nose and then breathe slowly out through your mouth. In and out. Good. You’re
Her office is decorated in soothing tans and whites with splashes or pops of blues and oranges that catch the eye. And yes, there is actually a couch but there are comfy chairs as well. I’ve been seeing a therapist now for the last nine months and in all that time, I have never stretched out on a couch or stared at ink blots.
Although, I suppose I could have if I’d wanted to.
Being a creature of habit, I always pick the same chair. I’m sure that says something about me but I have yet to ask. Dr. Thompson usually sits directly across from me with a notebook close at hand in case she wants to jot down a few notes. In the beginning, I used to find that disconcerting- I just wanted to take a quick little peek to see what she was writing about me, but now it seems normal. Okay… I’m not going to lie, I still want to take a peek at that notebook.
Once we’re both settled, Dr. Thompson starts off our session just like she always does. There’s some measure of comfort in our established routine that instantly calms my frayed nerves.
“So, tell me how this week has been going for you.” Her kind eyes hold mine as if she is genuinely interested in my answer.
Taking a deep breath, I quietly push out the dreaded words. “I had an anxiety attack last Thursday night.”
I can tell this catches her off guard by the way her narrow brows quickly draw together. She knows this is the first episode I’ve experienced here at school. It’s actually the first one I’ve had in a really long time. Months. Another wave of apprehension washes over me because I’m absolutely terrified of backsliding. I’m terrified of tumbling back down into that yawning pit of despair I only recently crawled out of.
“Okay, so tell me exactly what happened, Cassidy.” Her words are calm, soothing. In response, I instantly feel myself begin to relax again. If there’s someone who can help me through this, it’s Dr. Thompson.
Nodding, I slowly recount everything that occurred Thursday night. I tell her about my interaction with Alex and then with Cole.
“Had you been drinking at all? Even a tiny sip?” Her words aren’t censorious, merely curious. Like me, she’s simply trying to get to the bottom of what triggered the attack.
“Just diet cola.” I haven’t had a sip of alcohol in more than nine months. Not since that night…
She gives me a small smile before jotting down a few notes. “Just making sure.”
I nod, feeling the anxiety of that night thread its way through my body before slowly rolling over me like a massive wave. I don’t want to let it suck me back under again but I don’t know how to stop it from happening.
“So, he grabbed your upper arm from behind and spun you towards him,” she clarifies quietly.
“Yes,” hearing her describe it like that has me actually feeling as if my throat is closing up, as if I can’t suck in enough oxygen. As if I’m being strangled from the inside out. Eyes widening, my hands are suddenly clawing at my neck as if that will somehow loosen the pressure.
“Cassidy, I want you to look at me,” her words are firm but still soothing. My eyes fly helplessly to hers. “You’re safe in this office. Everything is fine. We’re going to work through this together. Okay?”
Unable to utter a single word in response, I simply nod my head.
“Now, I want you to close your eyes and relax into the chair.”
When I don’t immediately comply, she explains, “We’re going to engage in some breathing exercises to help calm you down, alright?”
Jerking my head in response, I lean back, squeezing my eyes tightly shut as the soothing timbre of Dr. Thompson’s deep voice washes over me. Any moment I’m going to start hyperventilating and totally lose it.
“I want you to focus on taking slow deep breaths. Inhale through your nose and then breathe slowly out through your mouth. In and out. Good. You’re
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