I open my mouth, but my throat is locked tight and my mouth is desert dry. If I pick up my water glass, I’m likely to drop it. Instead, I clamp my hands together between my twitching knees. “I… um.” My voice is hoarse, but it works. That’s something. “I’m not good with people.”
Those are the words I use when people wonder why I sometimes struggle to hold a decent conversation, or when I avoid situations others look forward to. My mother used to call me sensitive. The teachers at the school she was eventually forced to send me to called me shy. The Child Safety Officer who showed up on our doorstep to do the forcing called it social deprivation and neglect. In more recent years, my doctor has offered a new label: social anxiety disorder. She wants me to see someone about it, but I haven’t gotten around to it yet.
“Okay,” Tristan says, watching me closely. “I think I understand now.” Pushing the document aside, he picks up his fork and takes another bite of food while appearing to mull the problem over. “I’m not gonna lie, you won’t be able to avoid dealing with people altogether. But I can bring everything back to basics. Chunk it up. Then you’ll be able to make progress without overloading your system.” Nodding to himself, he nabs his third slice of bread and tears a piece off. “It’ll be slow going, but we’ll get you where you need to go. One small step at a time is better than no steps at all, right?” He uses his bread to sop up some gravy and pops it into his mouth before closing his eyes on a deep sigh. “Damn, this is good.”
I sit there, staring at him while he continues to devour his food. That’s not the reaction I expected.
Most people, when confronted with the mess I really am, do their best to sympathise—sometimes with a sprinkle of pity on top, for good measure. But the moment my issues get in their way or cause any sort of stumbling block in their path through life, the tone changes. My anxiety is reclassified as a petty self-indulgence. Something I could easily get over if only I’d ‘try harder’ and ‘force myself’ to do the things that make me uncomfortable. If forcing myself through bad days were the answer, I’d have been cured years ago.
Tristan, on the other hand, appears to have accepted my statement at face value, like it’s no big deal. Then he’s skipped over the sympathy, the pity, the annoyance, and the condescension, instead going straight to a discussion of how he can adjust his plans to better suit my needs. No one has ever managed that before.
“Are you a unicorn?” The instant the words leave my mouth I want to smack myself in the head. I finally find my voice, and that’s the question I ask?
Tristan’s brow furrows and I huff out a laugh. “You um… you seem too good to be true.”
The shadow smile eases onto his face. “Definitely not,” he assures me. “It’s just, I get it. What you go through.”
My eyebrows lift as I take in his expensive suit and perfect face. “Sure you do.”
Pushing his empty bowl aside, he sits forward. “I don’t have problems talking to people like you do. I can make a presentation to a room full of executives without breaking a sweat. That shit doesn’t scare me.”
In anyone else, it might come across like bragging or rubbing my nose in my limitations. But I get the impression Tristan is genuinely attempting to share something personal with me. So, I tilt my head to one side and ask the question he’s given me. “What does scare you?”
He shifts in his chair and I see his throat work as he swallows. His gaze wanders around the room, landing on everything but me. There’s a long pause, and then, “I can’t meditate.”
That’s it? That’s his big secret? Now I’m confused. “You’re using the app—”
“Doesn’t count.” He shakes his head. “On the app you order me about. All I have to do is follow your instructions.”
He didn’t mean for that to sound all dirty. I’m sure he didn’t. But suddenly he’s not the only one squirming. Though in my case it’s for an entirely different reason.
“I’m talking about the thing where you sit there with nothing but your thoughts for company,” he clarifies, before shaking his head. “I can’t do that.”
Nearly every student I’ve ever had said the same thing the first time they walked through my door. I tell him what I tell them. “It’s a matter of practise.”
“Not for me,” he replies. “I’m not saying I’m bad at it, I’m saying I can’t even bring myself to try.” He’s quieter now, as if he can barely stand to hear his own confession let alone offer it to me. “I do not understand how you can just sit there and let your thoughts go wherever they want, and just… be okay.”
His hand is flat on the table between us and I place mine over the top, my palm a gentle pressure against his knuckles. To ground him, in case he needs it. He doesn’t respond, not even to pull away. “The point of meditation is to distance yourself from your thoughts. So you can sit with the quiet underneath. Then the thoughts can come and go without judgement and without pain. Because you are not your thoughts, and they can’t hurt you.”
When his gaze clashes with mine, it’s like he’s reaching inside me, searching for the parts of me that understand. “Just because something isn’t dangerous doesn’t mean it can’t scare the shit out of you,” he says in a rough whisper. “The fear is real. You’d better believe I get that.”
He pulls his hand away and sits up straight, shrugging off the previous conversation. He turns the printed document towards me and hands me his red pen. “I want you to pick one thing. Only one. Something we can work on together.”
Starting at the top of the summary, I scan the list of tasks. By the time I reach the end, my throat is closing up. “I could never go on television,” I tell him. “I couldn’t possibly.”
“Guess you’d better not pick that one then.”
“Right.” I move back up near the top of the page. Surely I could tackle one of the smaller tasks without having an aneurysm.
I’m about to put pen to paper when I stop, looking up at Tristan. “I want you to come to some of my meditation classes.” There’s a wobble to my words, but my conviction is strong. Something deep inside this man is in desperate need of healing. I don’t know what it is, or why it’s there. But I’m determined to help him, as he seems determined to help me.
“I told you, I can’t.” His mouth presses into a thin line. “We’ll have to find some other way.”
There is no other way, not for either of us.
“If I can do this, so can you.” My voice is stronger this time. “I’ll be there. You won’t do it alone.”
He looks from my face to the place where the pen is about to touch down, and back again.
