Five
Rowan
I had a tantrum this morning. I’m not proud of it. I’m actually pretty ashamed. But the creative block is so bad that I threw paint at a blank canvas, then cried while scrubbing it off the floor.
Somewhere between washing paint off places it should never be and eating cereal out of the box because every bowl I own is dirty, I dug Dr. Mercer’s pamphlet out of my bag and called Westbrook.
I don’t know what I expected. A six-month waiting list, ideally. Something that would let me tell Mercer I tried without actually having to follow through.
Instead, the receptionist said, “We actually have space in our chronic illness group this evening.”
I stared at the wall. “This evening?”
“Would you like me to reserve a spot?”
No.
“Sure.”
Ten minutes later, a confirmation text came through.
WESTbrOOK MEDICAL AND RESEARCH CENTER GROUP THERAPY—6:00 PM. ROOM 4.
Which is how, several hours later, I find myself on the sidewalk outside the Westbrook Center. I stand there, deciding whether showing up physically satisfies the obligation. Does it count as attending if I stare at the entrance for an hour and then hit the bakery down the block?
Except I’m not painting anything, and if I don’t at least try, I could end up with another failed show.
I’m six minutes late by the time I get inside, which isn’t ideal for my first attempt at emotional maturity.
Do not pass out right now.
Anxiety crawls higher, tightening around my ribs and climbing into my throat.
And just like that, I’m fifteen again.
It’s a different building, yet the feeling is the same.
A beige office with two armchairs and a box of tissues placed perfectly between them.
Me sitting with my knees pulled together, trying to explain why I was tired all the time.
Why everything hurt. Why standing too long made the room swim.
Why sometimes my heart took off for no reason, and my hands shook, and my legs felt like they belonged to somebody else.
The doctors hadn’t found anything.
Blood tests normal. Scans normal. Everything normal.
So eventually, somebody decided the problem might not be my body.
“Sometimes physical symptoms can come from anxiety, Rowan.”
I remember staring at the therapist.
“But I’m not anxious.”
A patient smile. “You may not realize you are.”
“So it’s in my head?”
“I’m saying the mind can produce very real physical sensations.”
I remember leaving that office with Dad telling me this was good. That maybe we finally had an answer.
I remember nodding and deciding there were certain things I wouldn’t mention anymore.
A pain nobody could explain.
A dizzy spell that would become another conversation about stress.
A body doing something strange that apparently needed to be discussed in terms of my feelings rather than my joints or my heart or whatever the hell was happening.
It was easier to stop asking.
My fingers tighten around the strap of my bag.
That was eleven years ago, and I know, logically, that one bad experience doesn’t mean every therapist is waiting to tell me I’m imagining my own body.
When I reach room four, I stop and breathe before I force myself inside.
The room is neutral-toned, filled with potted plants, and about thirty people are already seated in a semicircle. My stomach drops. I hate semicircles. Semicircles are for cults.
A woman at the far side—presumably the therapist—is sorting through a folder.
I slide into the nearest empty chair, trying to blend into the wall. The woman to my left gives me a small, pitying smile. I give her a tight, defensive one back, instantly wondering if I have blue paint smudged on my forehead.
The therapist closes her folder and looks up. “Welcome, everyone. For our new members, I’m Dr. Webb. I want to remind you that this is a safe space.”
Standard stuff. I can survive sixty minutes of this.
“This group,” she continues, leaning forward, “is specifically designed for couples experiencing relational stress and communication difficulties.”
What?
I look across the circle. Couple. Couple. Couple. Woman by herself.
Okay. Good. Maybe she’s widowed.
Jesus Christ, Rowan. Why is widowed comforting?
I look back at Dr. Webb.
Oh, fuck me. I’m in the wrong room.
I’ve been single for over two years. I’m not experiencing “relational stress” unless you count my arguments with a blank canvas.
Dr. Webb is already moving on, talking about “the architecture of intimacy.” The door is right behind me. To leave, I just have to turn around and walk out.
When I stand, my chair legs catch on the tile floor, making a loud, sharp screech. Every head in the circle snaps toward me.
“Sorry,” I blurt. “I think I’m in the wrong place.”
Dr. Webb offers a knowing smile. “It’s completely normal to feel cold feet during your first session. Stepping into this room takes a lot of vulnerability.”
“No, I mean, I came here for—”
“And please, don’t feel discouraged because you came alone tonight,” she cuts in smoothly, gesturing to the rest of the circle. “You’re not the only person here without their significant other. A different perspective is often useful to the group.”
Before I can get a syllable out, she hands me a plastic clipboard with a black pen and gives my shoulder a reassuring pat.
There is a very specific kind of social paralysis that happens when you’ve tried to correct someone twice, and they’ve responded with kindness both times. A third attempt feels like an assault.
“This is just the standard intake packet,” she says quietly. “Have a look through it during the session. If you decide you don’t want to come back, you can take it with you or throw it away. No obligation. Take a breath.”
From across the room, a hand shoots up. It belongs to a woman in a crisp blazer. “I’m here alone too,” she announces. “My husband refused to come because he couldn’t pause his Call of Duty game long enough to acknowledge that our marriage is currently a dumpster fire. I’m Chloe.”
Two chairs down, a guy in a vest raises his hand. “My husband thinks therapy is for people who can’t handle real life,” he mutters. “So, apparently, I’m the only weak link in our household tonight. I’m Marcus.”
“My partner thinks I’m at a high-intensity spin class,” a woman in a yellow cardigan whispers. “I’m wearing leggings under this skirt to keep up the lie. I’m Gemma.”
This has gotten away from me so quickly I’m no longer sure honesty is socially appropriate.
Hi, I’m Rowan. I’m single, chronically ill, and here because I can’t paint feels unnecessarily disruptive.
My knees choose that exact moment to give out. I drop back into my chair with a soft huff, the clipboard resting on my lap.
“Okay then,” I mutter, folding my arms over the intake form.
The first couple, Jason and Amanda, are embroiled in a feud over the dishwasher.
Dr. Webb doesn’t laugh, which is exactly why I’m not a therapist. How the hell do you not laugh at this?
“How often are you arguing about the dishwasher?”
Amanda’s posture slumps. “Every night.”
It takes another five minutes to learn they have three children under four, that neither has slept properly in a year, and that Jason works ten-hour days, coming home convinced Amanda resents him for being away, while Amanda spends those same ten hours convinced Jason thinks raising three toddlers doesn’t count as work. The dishwasher isn’t the problem.
Gemma, the woman lying about spin class, has a mother-in-law problem. Specifically, her mother-in-law has a key.
“She reorganized our kitchen on Tuesday,” Gemma says. “On Thursday, she folded my laundry. Yesterday, she reorganized my underwear drawer.”
Gemma doesn’t need therapy. Gemma needs a locksmith.
Then we move to David and Todd. They want a dog, or rather, David wants a rescue dog, and Todd does not.
“I’m not anti-canine,” Todd says tightly. “I just think our foundation needs to be stable before we add a dependent creature to the ledger.”
“It’s a dog, Todd!” David fires back, his jaw clenching. “You’re acting like I’m asking to adopt a fire-breathing dragon! What you’re really saying is that our relationship can’t sustain a Labrador.”
The room goes silent.
It turns out Todd hasn’t felt stable in their relationship for two years.
It’s raw, messy, and deeply uncomfortable.
Then Chloe—the Call of Duty widow—lays it out. Nine years, two kids, a mortgage, and forty-five minutes of conversation a week that isn’t about grocery lists.
“We’re not even fighting,” she says, her voice trembling. “Fighting would require him to look at me. He sits right across the couch from me every single night, and I miss him so much I can’t breathe.”
My fingers tighten on the clipboard. That’s worse somehow. If he’d cheated, she could hate him. If he’d left, she could grieve him. But he’s right there, five feet away, and she misses him.
Next are Nina and Mark. Married eighteen years. Nina has rheumatoid arthritis.
I stop picking at my jeans.
“Mark is wonderful,” Nina says softly. “He does everything. He makes sure I take my medication. He drives when my hands are bad. He cooks. He changed his work schedule after my last flare.”
“That sounds supportive,” Dr. Webb says.
“It is, but I don’t want him to take care of me only.”
Mark’s forehead creases. “You need help sometimes.”
“I know, but I want you to… want me. Every time you touch me now, it’s to help me stand up or ask if I’m tired,” Nina whispers. “You don’t grab me in the kitchen anymore. You don’t even get annoyed with me.”
“I’m scared of hurting you,” Mark admits quietly.
“I don’t want to be the sick person in our marriage, Mark. I want to be your wife.”
I don’t know Nina. I don’t know Mark. I have no partner to worry about becoming my caretaker. But I know exactly what it feels like to walk into a room and wonder whether the first thing people see is what your body can’t do.
My pencil and sketchbook are in my hands before I realize I’ve pulled them from my bag. Something familiar sparks to life behind my ribs.
I don’t know whether I’m drawing the shape of Chloe’s bowed neck, the silence between David and Todd, or the feeling of a room suffocating on its history. I just need to get it out.
Finally, a couple in their fifties, Robert and Elena, speak up.
“We don’t know when it changed,” Elena starts. “There wasn’t one big moment. It was a thousand small things over many years. You stop paying attention to each other, and nothing falls apart overnight. It just gets quieter. By the time you notice, you don’t know how to fix it.
Robert reaches out, his weathered hand covering hers. “The love is still there. It’s just buried.”
“Under what?” Dr. Webb asks.
“Life,” Elena whispers. “Just… life.”
A tear drops onto the page, blurring a line of graphite before I can catch it.
Six pages in under an hour. For the first time in weeks, the thought of going back to the studio doesn’t make me want to set it on fire.
“That’s our time for today,” Dr. Webb announces, checking her watch.
I look down at the clipboard on my knees.
GROUP REGISTRATION.
My pen hovers over the box marked INTERESTED IN RETURNING.
I look at my sketchbook.
Six pages.
I check the box, then fill out my basic info, skip the spouse section, scrawl my signature at the bottom, and lay the clipboard on Dr. Webb’s desk on my way out. “See you next Tuesday.”
I step into the hallway to see a notice pinned to the wall that I didn’t see earlier.
CHRONIC ILLNESS GROUP—LAST-MINUTE ROOM CHANGE: ROOM 12.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
A woman walking past gives me a concerned look.
“Personal growth,” I tell her.
She nods like that explains it.