Page 21 of None Of Your Business

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.