Page 93 of The Difference Between

At first, there’s nothing. Noise, really. A cacophony of thoughts. But then, to my surprise, there they are: a cluster of bright yellow balloons with words like Fizz Co, Chicago, Sperm Donor, Mom’s Tumor, and Matt, to name a few, all held together by a hand—my hand—against a clear blue sky.

“Release the balloons,” Banyan says in a calm voice. “Watch them float into the sky, taking your worries with them.”

I try—hard—but my imaginary hand won’t release its clutch on the strings.

“Relax your jaw,” Banyan says. I didn’t know my jaw was clenched. “And choose one balloon to release instead. One thought you can let go of . . . just for now.

I choose one—the Matt balloon—and off it goes.

I hope it gets popped by an airplane then impaled by a lollipop.

“Now take a deep breath”—I do—“and release another one.”

We repeat this, and with every breath I become less aware of what’s happening around us and hyper focused on releasing the balloons.

One by one by one, they fly to the imaginary cloudless sky.

Banyan’s voice is low and level. “Keeping your eyes closed and breathing steady, nod if you have any left.”

I nod; there’s one.

“Can you release it?”

I will never understand what’s happening, but I can’t. My mind won’t let the last balloon leave my mental clutch.

“Is it a negative thought?”

I hesitate—is it? I don’t know. My pulse elevates as I fight to keep my eyes closed. Reluctantly, I shake my head.

Banyan says, “Tie it to a branch.”

“There’s no⁠—”

But yes, there it is. A branch appears and I tie off the balloon.

“That balloon is safe,” he says. “Just like you. Safe enough to breathe. Your only job is to focus on that feeling. Safely being able to inhale and exhale, looking at that balloon as much as you need to.”

I breathe.

I breathe and I breathe and I breathe and I breathe.

I know the balloon is there. I see it. The letters scribbled across it. Every time they appear, I feel a little more calm, which makes me a little more confused. Why this balloon? I want to ask someone in my head.

“When your mind starts to wander,” Banyan says, “come back to that balloon and your breath.”

So I do.

Over and over.

I think of getting pregnant and a wave of anxiety washes over me; the balloon appears.

I think of how much I hate sitting here being told to breathe by an idiot named Banyan; there’s the balloon.

I think of Matt atop a tower of Fizz Co cans. Yep: balloon.

I try to force it to fly but it won’t.

Inhale—balloon.