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Dr. Gabriel starts his timer for the individual work portion of class. I use the time to work on my
Crime and Punishment
paper. Last night’s surprise therapy session put me behind.

I can’t believe I’ll be back in another therapy session in just over two hours. Back with him.
{Quick record change—Buckley right back to Damien Rice.}

Callie, focus.
Paper. Due. Monday.

I do focus on my paper over the next hour. Sort of. As the clock gets closer and closer to the end of class, closer and closer to my appointment, my stomach gets more and more nervous. I try to shift in my chair to relax, but every time I move, Dr. Gabriel glances over at me like he thinks I’m trying to get his attention. I try to keep still so he stops. Luckily, my stomach’s skips and tumbles don’t make noises that he can hear.

Once his timer rings, Dr. Gabriel walks around to check the students’ progress. He decides to give them until the end of class to write. I use the time to work on my paper, to look at the clock, to pick off my nail polish, and to worry about 4:00 p.m.

At 3:00 p.m. sharp, I duck out of the classroom as a student corners Dr. Gabriel with questions about his paper
. Thank you, pimply freshman boy
.

I don’t have time to go home so I drive right to his office. After eating a 110-calorie granola bar, I pretend to continue writing my paper. Really, I just watch the clock and try not to notice the other patients going in and out of the office. My attempts don’t work. I notice each and every one. The Pierce football fan (so says his t-shirt) who screeches into the parking lot at 3:31 p.m. and runs to the main entrance doors. The crying brunette who uses the tissues in her left hand to wipe her eyes as she opens the office door with her bare right hand. The petite blonde who exits moments later talking on her cell phone. I watch them all. 3:55 p.m. As I prepare to get out of my car, the main office door opens again.

It’s him.

White dress shirt with a royal blue tie today. Eyes searching the lot. Looking around…for me?

Yes.
He catches my eye as I get out of the car and then waits patiently while I lock the car and pull on the door handle to ensure that it’s locked. One. Two. Three. I walk toward him, toward the main door that he is now holding open for me, thanking him as I walk past him and into the waiting room. He immediately moves ahead of me to open the next door, the brown door next to Annie’s desk. He completely ignores the surprised look Annie gives him. I give her a tiny smile as she turns her stunned eyes to me.

And we are off. Down the endless, twisting hall, past the birds, and into his office yet again. He goes right to the closet where he unlocks the door and pulls out my chair. After moving it to the same place as last night, I sit, again clutching my purse on my lap. Without saying a word, he points to a hook on the wall to the left of his desk. A new hook. For me. For my purse. He doesn’t even have to tell me.

Mumbling “thank you,” I hang the purse on the hook, my hook, and return to my chair. Another “my” in this office, I think, as I watch him go over to the bathroom and wash his hands. My way. Well, his mom’s way too, I guess.
{Let’s pause to welcome back Mr. Frank Sinatra, now with
“My Way.”
}

He sits behind his desk, clean and ready to go. “All right, Calista. Breathing. The relaxation techniques I’m going to teach you today will be the foundation for our entire immersion procedure. You will be exposed to situations that you don’t like, ones that will make you uncomfortable at a variety of different levels.”

I must flinch at the thought because he pauses for a moment and starts again in a gentler, less clinical voice.

“You will be uncomfortable at times, Calista, but I’m going to show you some ways to lessen that discomfort.” He stops and catches my nervously wandering eyes. “Trust me, Calista.”

There is that word again. Trust. I’m supposed to trust him entirely for this to work. I tell myself that I can do this. I am pretty convinced that he is genuinely trying to help me. I trust that he’s not going to just leave me in an unsafe location or seriously dangerous situation. I do. What I don’t trust is the idea that I’m going to be able to use relaxation techniques to make me calm. I don’t trust that I’m going to have the patience or endurance to not run away. I don’t think that I’ll be able to just breathe when I’m in one of these tough spots. With him around, I’m having a hard enough time breathing as it is…

He looks at me, concerned now.
Gotta fix that.

“So…what are these techniques?” I sidestep the trust conversation. Hopefully.

“Okay, if you are ready, I will teach you.” He leans back in his chair as he begins his explanation. “I referred to this as yoga-type relaxation only because I thought that might be a familiar point of reference for you. Since it’s not, I will refer to it as what it really is—Progressive Muscle Relaxation.” Never heard of it.

He continues. “It’s rather simple, really. When feeling overwhelmed or highly uncomfortable during our sessions, you may have difficulty with controlling your anxiety. Your first instinct will be to run from the place, from the circumstances, from me.”
From him? Doubtful.
“I am teaching you some relaxation skills today so I can perhaps help you prevent yourself from running. Essentially, I want to show you how to relax before I cause you any anxiety.”

I nod slightly.

“All right, to get started, I am going to go through some steps with you.” He stands up and wheels his chair around the desk. He sits down, and we face each other. Again. Knees not quite touching.

He looks right into my eyes, searching for approval to continue. So gentle. So concerned. So, so sad…still.
That’s pity, Callie. He feels sorry for you, just like he does for his mom.

Pity or not, I hate seeing that sadness so I nod. Nod number 6,003, I think.

He nods slowly in return, somewhat convinced that it’s okay to move on. As he starts to explain, he catches my eyes every twenty seconds or so–to check if everything is okay, I guess. Kind of like when I check my alarm clock at night. Maybe he understands this disease even more than he knows…

Pay attention, Callie.

“And the first thing we’ll need to do involves recreating some of the tension you experience when uncomfortable or scared. To do that, we’ll concentrate on specific areas of your body, ones that you personally feel are most affected when you are stressed.”

And these areas are? How the hell could he know when I don’t have a clue?

“Calista?”

Oh. He wants an answer. I have no idea. I don’t really concentrate on specific muscle groups that I can’t even name while I’m trying to avoid catching Hepatitis or the Swine Flu.
I kind of have a lot of other things to worry about in those situations, Doc.

I, of course, say none of that and just shrug my shoulders instead.

“That’s okay, Calista.” Understanding, as always. “I understand that you probably haven’t really thought about any of this before. We are going to practice with some commonly tensed muscle groups for now. If later in the week you find that some areas become more strained than others, we’ll focus on those at that time.” Pause. “Okay?” Quiet. Concerned.

Yes, I think so.
I nod.

“Okay then.”

He says “okay” a lot. “All right” too. He probably remembers to spell it as two words instead of—

“Let’s start with your stomach. Many people talk of nervous stomachs when discussing anxiety.”

I wonder if he knows how spastic my stomach gets when he looks at me. Probably does.

“I want you to lean back in your chair like this.” He rests his back and head against his chair. As he moves, his knee brushes mine ever so slightly.

Yep, there goes my stomach. Tense and fluttery at the same time.

“Sorry,” he says quickly, and his face reddens a bit. Guess that wasn’t the way he intended to create tension.

I do as he says, leaning back in my chair. Careful not to move my legs.

“Okay, now…”

Okay. Okay. All right. All right. Okay. All right.

Focus, Callie.

“—should inhale and tightly squeeze the muscles in your stomach for about ten seconds. As you do this, really concentrate on that tension. Feel it. Become familiar with it. After that, you will exhale and relax that muscle group and again concentrate on the experience. The feeling of it. And the power you have over your body.”
{Enter Debarge with
“Rhythm of the Night.”
}

“Ready, Calista?”

Nod. Nod. Nod.

“Close your eyes and begin.”

I close my eyes and suck in my stomach as hard as I can. Think stomach. Stomach.
{The DJ turns up the volume.}

“Now, release the tension.”

Release. Exhale. Concentrate. Stomach. Stomach.
{BIG refrain.}
Stomach. Stomach.
{And repeat.}
Stomach. Relaxed…ish.

“Okay. Open your eyes. Let’s move on. We will use the same process, but this time you will focus on creating and relaxing tension in your hands. Ready?” Nod. Eyes closed again. “Begin.”

We continue this process over and over. Neck, face, legs, etc. It’s not too bad. Not going to make me calm about catching MRSA or anything, but not too bad. A little relaxing.

After tensing and untensing my feet, he tells me that he would like for me to practice these exercises at home a few times a day. He even tells me about a website that gives tips for the techniques. I should probably write the website down, but I don’t have a pen or any paper. Well, I do, but they are in my purse. Which is on my hook.

Behind his desk again, he paces a little.
What now?

“Calista, there is one other relaxation technique I’d like us to practice.” Still pacing.

“Okay…?” I borrow a piece of his sophisticated vernacular.
What is the problem?

Still pacing.

“Well?” I push for an answer, raising my eyebrows for emphasis. Wasted emphasis. I’m sure he doesn’t see it.

Nothing. Just stupid pacing.

“Dr. Blake?”

He stops.

“Aiden,” he almost whispers, looking straight into my eyes. He is sad again.

I am suddenly very aware of the tension building in various parts of my body. Acutely aware.

“Aiden,” I repeat softly. “What do we do next?”

Silence. Eyes. Locked. Together.
{Damien Rice cuts ba—}

Focus, Callie
.

“Please tell me.”

He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. When he opens them, they are still sad but also a tiny bit hopeful, I think.

“Calista, I’m afraid that your anxiety level might sometimes reach a stage that you won’t be able to breathe your way out of yourself.” He pauses, breathes, and continues very slowly. Each word seems to take an entire minute for him to say. “When that happens, I want to be able to help bring you out of it. I want to try one last technique that might stop you from running away.”

Okay…

“I promise we’ll only try this in extreme circumstances, and only if you want to do it. If you want to drop this part right now, we can.” He breaks our eye contact and starts pacing again.
UGH.
Gotta pull more information from him. Who is the therapist here?

“Tell me.” Pause. Nothing. “Now, Aiden.”

That stops his pacing. His eyes fly right back to mine. I nod gently.

He opens his mouth to talk.
Good counseling, Callie.

“It’s a massage technique,” he mumbles while lowering his eyes, “for your shoulders. Something I can do to take away some of your tension when you don’t have the strength to do it on your own.” He keeps his eyes and head down, almost as though he is waiting for me to throw my chair at him or something.

Oh. More touching. That explains the sad eyes. He thinks he’s going to get me all freaked out.

He’s wrong. I’m starting to realize that he doesn’t actually know
everything
about me. He doesn’t know that I do allow some people to touch me. Mandy, Melanie, Mom, Abby. Jared and Dad on occasion. And it’s okay. Not something that really takes any special effort on my part.

He doesn’t know that some people are clean to me. Okay to touch. And he can’t possibly know what I am just now realizing.
He
is clean to me. Somehow.

Well, I know how. He’s earned it. The tissues, the chair, the special instruments, the hand washing, his mom…I do trust him.

Now to explain that without being gushy or creepy. It would be easier to refuse the massage. Besides that, he may be clean to me, but the thought of him massaging my shoulders still gets me all nervous.

He is still looking down, but I know his eyes are upset, concerned, distraught. I can’t be responsible for that.

One. Two. Three. Here goes… “Let’s do it.”

His head snaps up. Eyes on eyes. “Really?” More hope than sad in his eyes now. Some relief too. Good.

“Yes.”

He starts to explain the massage technique he’ll use, but all I hear is, “I’m going to touch you, I’m going to touch you, I’m going to…”

Well, at least I won’t have to fake tension in my body for our little practice session.
{Another quick change. Rice to Finger Eleven with
“Paralyzer.”
}

“Are you ready?”

Why not?
Deep breath. Nod number 9,306.

He slowly walks away from his desk and around me to the back of my chair. I resist the urge to turn and watch him as he passes, instead keeping my tense body rigid and facing straight ahead.

“Move slightly forward on your chair, Calista. Just a little so I can, uh, get my hands behind you.” I adjust myself. “Now, try to recreate some of the tension from our earlier exercise.”

Already tense, Dr. Blake.

I close my eyes and go through some of the motions from earlier, pretending to make some new tension.

“Good, Calista.” Glad he appreciates my efforts. “Are you ready?”

At least when I nod this time, he gets to see a new view of the move.