I swallow down whatever mean retort is gathering and shake my head instead, pressing my lips together.
He puts his hand on my wrist. ‘Stef,’ he says. That whisper of a way he says my name. Still as soft as confetti.
I cram my sandwich into my mouth to avoid answering, but my hands are still free and he’s still looking at me patiently, waiting for an answer. For God’s sake.
I’m fine, I say. I’m fine.
‘I’m falling apart,’ I blurt out, walking into the room ahead of Jane and dumping my bag on the table.
‘I can see that,’ Jane says, smiling a little. She closes the door behind us and comes to sit down opposite me. I’m already in the chair, drumming my fingers on the pine table. ‘Do you want some water?’
I consider, then nod. ‘Yes, please.’
I watch Jane walk over to the water cooler, taking her time as always. Jane never rushes or hesitates. She’s like calm in the shape of a person.
‘Thanks for fitting me in today,’ I say. I try to remember that this is Jane’s job, that she doesn’t actually owe me anything beyond me being a client. Remembering that also helps me frame my anxiety as part of her job too. Something she deals with every day. To her, it’s normal. I’m a client, not a problem.
‘I had a cancellation,’ Jane says, coming back to the table with a paper cup of water. ‘So you were lucky in that sense.’ She sits down. ‘Now. Where do you want to start?’
‘Well.’ I take a sip from the cup. ‘It was my birthday yesterday.’
‘Oh yes. That’s right. Happy birthday.’
‘Thanks,’ I say automatically.
‘Did something go wrong?’ she prompts.
‘No. That’s the thing. It was perfect. I was so happy.’
Jane watches me, nodding, a soft expression on her face that I can’t quite read. It’s almost a smile, but there’s a sadness to it that I don’t understand. She knows what I’m going to say, I realize. She gets this.
‘It was the best day. We had, like, a Thanksgiving thing. And then I went to bed and . . .’ I pause, remembering how it had come on so suddenly, manageable at first and then unstoppable. ‘I had a massive panic attack. A really bad one. The worst for months. It wasn’t even . . .’ I take a deep breath. ‘It wasn’t even triggered by anything. I was happy.’ I can feel frustration, thick and cloying, in my throat. I hope I don’t start crying. ‘It’s not fair.’
‘What isn’t fair?’ Jane asks gently.
‘That I still get like this even when I’m happy.’ I am digging my fingers into the cotton of the skirt I’m wearing, twisting and tugging. ‘That I can still get anxious when I’m . . . not.’
‘You know that your anxiety isn’t about happiness and sadness,’ Jane says. ‘It isn’t a cause and effect. Sometimes – often, even – there’ll be very clear triggers, but not always. Chronic anxiety is a form of illness, Steffi. It’s not something you bring on yourself by how you feel on any given day.’
‘But this wasn’t just anxiety,’ I say. ‘This was a massive panic attack. Like, about-to-get-murdered panic attack. And I was as safe as anyone can be. I was happy as anyone can be.’
I can almost see her decide to change tack before she starts speaking again. ‘Do you want to talk me through your thought process before, during and after?’
I shake my head. ‘These aren’t supposed to happen,’ I say. ‘I’m on medication. I’m happy. It’s meant to go away now.’
‘Steffi,’ Jane says, still gentle, still calm. ‘You know that’s not how it works.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because anxiety doesn’t care if you’re happy or not,’ she says patiently. ‘Just like cancer doesn’t care if you’re happy. Or a broken leg. Or diabetes.’
‘That’s not the same.’
‘Blaming yourself for your illness will hinder your recovery process,’ Jane says. ‘It won’t help. If you tell yourself you’re not allowed to have panic attacks because you’re “meant to be happy”, it will make you feel worse. It will feed the negative emotions.’
‘I’m not blaming myself.’
‘Good, then talk me through your thought process.’
I take another sip from my cup, trying to remember. ‘I was in bed,’ I say finally. ‘Thinking about how nice it had been that day, how lucky I was to have Rhys and Tem and my family. And then . . .’ I swallow. ‘And then I got scared.’
Jane nods. ‘Scared of what?’
‘Scared that . . . it wouldn’t last. That it would go away.’
Jane is silent for a while, letting us both digest these words. Her, hearing them for the first time. Me, hearing them aloud.
I try to smile. ‘Isn’t that stupid?’
‘No, Steffi,’ Jane says quietly. ‘It’s not stupid at all.’