“Noted. Well other than college applications, what else can I do for you?”
“Umm . . . I have some . . .” I hear the hesitancy in her voice and look up to see her twiddling her thumbs. The confident energy in the room has shifted.
I wait patiently for her to gather her thoughts. Without looking away from her, I reach for the box of tissues and walk over to sit next to her on the couch. “Anxiety.” I hand her the tissue, stating a fact rather than posing a question.
Within moments of Sarah being in my office, my analytic brain started firing off physical signs of anxiety: jittery hands, cheek biting, stumbling on her words.
She nods. “I think so.” Small tears bubbling up in the corners of her eyes.
We spent the rest of the hour dissecting her fears and recent stressors, and how she has been experiencing nausea, headaches, and loss of sleep, in addition to her overthinking and feelings of dread. All manifestations of anxiety. She shared with me how she feels immense pressure to succeed, and how the idea of going to medical school by the age of twenty is terrifying her but also fueling her. She also feels any ounce of confidence she has can be wiped away with just one small shred of doubt or panic. We talk about how her lack of sleep is inhibiting her from being more in control of her emotional response and after a lot of back and forth, she finally agrees to take one day a week to do something for herself—something not school related or even remotely close to the premise.
“You’ve never seenThe Princess Bride?” I squeal at her, forgetting she is a student and I am not one of her besties having lunch with her in the school cafeteria. She giggles at me, either because she finds my reaction to her lack of knowledge of classical cinema funny, or because she realizes she is much cooler than the psychologist with a Ph.D. from Columbia.
“I’m more interested in documentaries—or reality TV. Did you know there was a documentary about reality television? I didn’t leave my room for two days last summer!” She throws up both pointer fingers indicating two and slouches back onto the couch. She is much more relaxed with me now, and the anxiousness that was practically vibrating through her entire body an hour ago has slowed to a small hum.
I catch myself taking in this sweet, goal-oriented girl and quickly realize she is a lot like me.
Or . . . I’m a lot like her.
For obvious reasons, I know it is because we are both women, living in a man’s world, with hopes and dreams of excelling in our desired fields. But more than that, we both feel insecure and anxious about letting the people we love down. Growing up, I felt the incessant need to be the mom of the family, especially when our mom was struggling. I viewed her and Emma’s anxiety as a weakness that I just couldn’t allow myself to crumble from. And for the majority of my life, I never experienced anxiety. Or depression. Or even minor intrusive thoughts. I always thought it was because I was meant to be the burden-bearer for all of them. Even when my dad was recovering from his heart attack, I told myself it was my job to take on some of his responsibilities. Case in point, I would have never willingly taught myself how to fix a leaky faucet or change the oil in my car unless I felt it was for the betterment and overall well-being of someone I loved.
It wasn’t until Liam left me that my therapist told me I was suppressing too many of my own feelings to be empathetic to those around me, and one day it would all come crumbling down. Of course, I didn’t listen to her. I actually fired her because she was dead wrong.
Until she wasn’t.
A few weeks later, the kitchen incident happened.
“Well then, take a few hours this week to find a new documentary. Or watch one you’ve already seen. Do something that helps you de-stress and allows your brain some time away from these triggers. I will get in touch with some of the schools for your applications, and we can reconvene next week.” I pry myself off the cozy couch. Stretching my arms overhead, hearing my back pop in about a million places, I ask, “How does that sound?”
Sarah hops up from the couch without any difficulty, back free of pops and pain. “Sounds like a plan! Thank you, Ms. Bailey.” She gathers her bag and purple checkered cardigan and heads for the door.
I feel a fondness for her as she leaves and I remind myself to keep it under control—no getting attached to these kids.
Chapter five
Benny
Thefirstfewweeksback to class went by incredibly smooth.
As great as this job is, the beginning of the term always has the power to make or break me. Something about being the one in charge of hormonal youth can really shake a man. And with the changes in faculty, and readjusting of schedules, I was preparing to be wrecked.
Pleased to report no wreckage has happened . . . thus far.
I can’t help but think the newest addition to our staff has something to do with the smooth transition. Ms. Bailey has swooped in and stepped into her role with ease, even if it seems like it’s the least fun she’s had in her entire life.
“Alright, so we are all meeting at Wafflin’ at six—Ms. Pat will be getting there at six-thirty! Kate, please leave the vegan cake at home, we don’t want to give her a stroke.” Emma sits in the overused leather recliner at the front of the teacher’s lounge, directing our meeting today.
I’m grateful to her for that.
It’s Patsy’s official last day and she has been so busy spending time helping Ellie get familiar with her new job, I’ve barely seen her. Patsy usually spends most of her time in my office as we tackle the first of the year tasks. There were days I couldn’t get the woman out of my office quick enough. Up until this morning, I hadn’t considered I would be losing out on that time while she spends most of her day training the new girl.
I’m going to miss Patsy, a lot.
Today is going to be hard—emotionally.
And to add insult to injury—for reasons I can’t seem to pinpoint—a small part of me is feeling jealous, wishingIwas the one spending all of my time with the new girl.
Without coming across as too eager, I’ve tried making small talk with her every chance I get. She doesn’t talk to any of us much, but definitely speaks the least amount to me. And most of the time, when I try to meet her in the hallway, she dips into the girl’s restroom like she’s trying to avoid me.
