11. Midpoint #2
Myra crosses her arms and pouts. “Well, fiddlesticks.”
Rose, still staring at me, closes her gaping mouth and tilts her head, looking at me like she is reassessing everything she thinks she knows about me.
Fiddlesticks, indeed.
Ian
“Tell me more about your parents.”
I laugh, despite the seriousness of the setting.
Thankfully, my new therapist, Dr. Betty Brown, has a sense of humor and smiles with me. “I know the parent question is a cliché, but it’s a cliché for a reason.” A legal pad rests on her crossed legs, fountain pen in one manicured hand.
I’ve been in her office for nearly an hour. I’d introduced myself, told her I was here to deal with my claustrophobia, and then she was off and running, asking me questions left and right.
So far, therapy isn’t all that bad. The biggest dilemma I faced was when Dr. Brown walked me into her office and I had to decide where to sit.
Set up like a family room rather than a doctor’s office, my choices were a recliner, love seat, or couch.
I chose couch, but decided to sit, not lie on it.
I could only take so many clichés for the day.
Dr. Brown glances at her notes. “You told me that you can’t pinpoint a single traumatic event that led you to be afraid of small spaces, such as being trapped or confined, which leads me to believe that your claustrophobia is a learned behavior.”
“Learned behavior?”
“Yes. Like you saw one of your parents struggling with confined spaces and took on those behaviors for yourself.”
“The senator?” I scoff. Nearing the end of the session, the doctor is aware of who my father is.
And after a few of her pointed questions, I’m sure she has a good grip on our relationship as well.
“I don’t think he’s ever struggled. In fact, he thinks my ‘little problem,’” I emphasize with air quotes, “is quite shameful and I should just get over it.”
Dr. Brown, her face usually crafted in a neutral expression, frowns. “Yes. Unfortunately, many people disregard anxiety disorders.” Her frown deepens. “Or any mental illness, for that matter.” She shakes off her countenance, going back to neutral. “And your mother?”
I lean back on her blue sofa, thinking. I’ll say one thing for therapy, it makes you think. About things you forgot, things you’ve been trying to forget. I’m not too fond of that part of it.
“I don’t know.” Flipping through my memories, I can’t recall much of my mother’s presence. “As loud and as opinionated as my father can be, my mother is just the opposite. She’s gotten quieter and quieter over the years as my father’s political career has become more and more demanding.”
“Interesting.”
I raise a brow at her.
“Sorry.” She laughs. “I’m just full of trite expressions today. I just meant that the way you described your mother made me think of something.” Instead of sharing, she jots down a note. “Can you tell me when you started noticing your fear of small spaces?”
Glancing at her notepad, I answer her question.
“The first time was when I couldn’t bring myself to get on a plane.
It was right before graduate school. Dad had just won his first US Senate election and I’d given up the Olympics to go to MIT.
” I give the therapist a sardonic look. “As I mentioned before, the senator was not pleased.” I shrug.
“But I got the plane ticket, went to the airport, checked my luggage, and even made it through security. Then…” I trail off, remembering standing at the gate, staring down the length of the boarding bridge, feeling like if I stepped through the opening it would close in on me until I couldn’t breathe.
“I couldn’t do it.” I wipe a hand down my face as if to clean away the anxiety the memory causes.
“I had to go back home, get my car, and make the cross-country drive.” I laugh at myself.
“Almost missed the start of the semester.”
“Would you say that was a defining moment in your life? Giving up the chance at Olympics and going to graduate school instead?”
I nod, still trying to shake the memory.
“And your mother?” Dr. Brown asks. “What did she say about your decision?”
“Mom?” I blink, trying to recall. “I… huh. I don’t know.” I huff out a humorless laugh. “I don’t think she ever said anything to me then.” Feeling somewhat uncomfortable with that truth, I add, “She stopped getting much of a say after that US Senate election, anyway.”
The timer she’d set at the beginning of our session chimes.
“That’s the end of the hour.” Dr. Brown shifts forward in her seat, leaning toward me.
“But I want you to know that I heard you. That I’ve listened to what you said, and I am extremely confident that you can overcome your claustrophobia.
” She hesitates for a moment. “It’s only our first session, and there is a lot to learn and understand, but from what you’ve told me, I honestly think that your anxiety stems from having to make such a large decision on your own regarding your future, which was against the wishes of your father, whom you have described as, um, quite domineering. ”
I smile at her attempt to describe my father so politely.
“You saw your mother trapped by her marital circumstances and may have felt trapped yourself. And your anxiety over this may have manifested itself in a physical aversion to being confined.”
“Huh.” There’s a lot to unpack in what she said, but all of it connects.
Dr. Brown clasps her hands in front of her.
“I hesitated to say any of this, because as I said, it is early days. However, I do want to assure you that you should not let your claustrophobia waylay your occupational progress. I truly believe that through cognitive behavior therapy and probably, at least at the start, an anti-anxiety medication for during flights or confining situations, you’ll be able to overcome this. ”
Relief washes over me. And embarrassingly, my eyes feel hot. Clearing my throat, I stretch out my hand. “Thanks Dr. Brown. I really appreciate it.”
Her grip is firm when she shakes my hand. “Of course. That’s why they pay me the big bucks. And by they, I mean you.”
We laugh, but before I can stand to take my leave, she gestures for me to wait. “One more thing.” She taps her notebook with a knuckle. “Your homework.”