Have you ever felt like the world was ending?
Like ending ending. I don't mean an apocalypse necessarily.
It's that expression people say when you overreact.
C'mon your'e acting like the world is ending.
My definition of ending is that feeling of a thousand eyes across your skin. Or hearing nothing but the sound of crashing waves when you desperately want to know what the voices are saying.
It's a miracle you step outside. It's even more rare a word slips out from between your tightly pressed lips, bitten bloody from the terror of what is in their heads.
My world is always ending.
But they call it social anxiety.
The faces swim. The bodies ebb and flow. My heart is in my ears pounding and marching its way through my brain every time I so much as look someone in the eyes.
Am I breathing? I'm never sure.
The woman at the desk gives me another odd look her cleanly plucked eyebrow raising a fraction higher than what would be considered polite as her light pink acrylic nails continue to drum against the wooden surface of her desk. I cannot hear them.
"Can I help you miss?"
I blink up at her dumbly. Waves of blood are crashing through my head and I can feel the heat rise to my cheeks. My world is going to be fine. Is what I tell myself.
Words come out of my mouth.
"Yes, I'm here for an appointment." My thumb brushes the hairbands around my wrist. Once. Twice. Theres a clock in the corner of the room shaped like a cat. I think it's for the kids but I like it.
The waiting room is pink, an inviting color. Like her nails. I avoid her eyes and latch my focus onto those pink nails. They flash at me in the dim lighting as they continue their rhythmic dance.
"Uh yes you are, Elizabeth Cross? For a two o'clock appointment correct?" I can tell she is looking at me for a response. I nod.
"Go right ahead dear, doctor Yang is waiting for you in room 11." I say nothing and take a mint from the small glass bowl on the right corner of her desk. They are the fat ones that I like, sweeter and softer than the ones they normally have at restaurants.
I pop it into my mouth and make my way down a hall and up a stairway, the office just to the right of the stairs is suite 11. There are only a couple other suits on the floor.
His office is a modest room. A rather ugly yellow with a tan couch that has too many floral print pillows. But there are plants that line the windows, wonderful climbing vines with long limbs of green that embrace the peeling white window frame. I think the plants are a nice touch.
My therapist awaits me in his usual worn leather chair. The hair on his head is thinning and he has a terrible habit of picking at a mole next to his lip.
I have been seeing him for more than a couple weeks now.
"Welcome Elizabeth" He's noticed me in the doorway.
"Hi" The greeting is awkward and thick as it leaves my lips. I shuffle in taking a seat on the couch next to all the pillows. I can't deny that it is comfortable.
"How are you today?" He usually asks me this. I can't really tell if he's genuinely interested, his head is down and he's probably leafing through last session's notes. I pull at the band on my wrist and stare outside at the passing cars.
