Favored by the Moon Goddess

If I could avoid waiting rooms for the rest of my life, I would. The number of times I've stared at the same walls, same inspirational decor, and same ceilings should be some world record. I leaned my head back against the very uncomfortable plastic chair. I closed my eyes to block out the constant hum of fluorescent lights. The distant murmuring behind the multiple doors throughout the hallway did not pique my curiosity enough to try to figure out what was said that day. Usually, I could catch a loud sentence here or an outburst there and fill in the blanks; however, today, my mental and physical exhaustion left me too numb even to try.

My mother's nagging voice crept into my thoughts, reminding me that you can only pour out what's in your cup… once it's empty, you must take time to fill it up again! She had gone through a trendy self-help-guru phase years ago with her high society friends. It quickly fell out of fashion, but the repetition of it still bled through my mind on occasion. Internally sighing, I checked the clock on the bright green wall again. Dr. Ashley Cunningham was running late today, something unusual. That woman ran on an internal clock that would impress high-tech computers.

A woman in designer clothes sat in the opposite corner of me. It wasn't unusual for me to encounter other patients or their families, and most of them were from wealth. Another reason Dr. Cunningham had appeared on my mother's radar; she catered to the self-appointed elite. Suddenly, the woman sniffed the air and turned directly toward me, her face barely moving. I contemplated whether it was Botox or if she had that good of a poker face. Once again, she sniffed the air and looked around, slightly confused. I tried to smell myself subtly but only found my vanilla lotion scent. I glanced around, stealthily nosing the air, also attempting to smell the same foul odor she had. There was nothing there. The waiting room only smelled of antiseptic and desperation. An older man burst from Dr. Cunningham's office, yelling how all these people are quacks. The woman stood up, slinging her designer handbag over her shoulder, and approached the man, hissing, "Dad, Calm down. You are causing a scene."

The man folded his arms across his chest, and his face tightened. He looks as though he is about to say something when a look of curiosity comes over him. The man looks in my direction. He sniffs much the same way his daughter had. He suddenly starts strutting toward me, sniffing the air. His daughter leaped toward him, grabbing his arm and yanking him toward the door. Dr. Cunningham stood there with a stoic, muscular orderly, "Mason, we discussed this.."

His focus didn't falter as he was two feet away from me, inhaling deeply, then confusion flooded his face, "No…. Not the same smell… it’s…”

As quickly as he was in front of me, he was gone, being easily removed by the orderly. I let out the breath I was holding and turned toward Dr. Cunningham. She watched to ensure they headed toward the exit before turning her attention to me. "Ignore what he said. He is not well. Come on in, and we will get started."

I walked in and took my seat on the fluffy designer couch, waiting for Dr. Cunningham to join me in her chair across from where I sat. She gave me her standard opening line," How have you been doing since we last saw one another?"

When I didn't respond, Dr. Cunningham stared down her nose toward me, "From what I understand, you had an episode yesterday. You've been here before; all your progress over the last three years seems thrown out the window. To verify that is not the case, we need to discuss what happened."

I stared at the ceiling again, trying not to let my anger breach the carefully placed mask. The whooshing of the white noise machine in the hall gave me a pounding headache. Dr. Cunningham shifted one leg over the other, causing my ears to burn with the scraping of her skirt's fabric. I know I should be responding, going through the steps to "calm" my mind, but the noise from the coffee shop guy screaming at me still lingered at the surface. All the emotions I'd thoroughly convinced everyone around me that I had under control were chiseling away underneath the glassy surface until they punched through yesterday. One random dude screaming about how I spilled coffee on him shattered three years of what everyone involved told me was progress. It felt more like three years of successful repression and ten-plus years of PTSD.

"Do you know what triggered the panic attack?" Dr. Cunningham attempted. The speckled ceiling panels gave the illusion of cheap building materials, which always struck me as odd, considering I was sitting on an expensive couch next to the doctor's custom mahogany desk. I wondered if the profit from the five days a week therapy sessions helped pay for the gaudy office decor or if my mother once again paid extra for insured silence. I stopped staring at the ceiling and focused on what Dr. Cunningham said, "If the silence continues, we must review our treatment plan with your mother. Maybe a more aggressive approach is necessary to revisit?"

Her head tilted to the side, curiously watching my reaction to her not-so-subtle threat. When her perfectly manicured eyebrows pulled together, I began to feel the panic crawl up my throat. I swallowed hard to suppress the horrifying memories of my first few years of treatment. I sat up, staring at the cheesy mental health poster behind Dr. Cunningham's head. Just Breath. It read in comical bubble letters beside a fish, making air bubbles. The urge to rip the sign off the wall was so familiar the deja vu feeling was almost as annoying as the image itself. "I'm not sure what triggered it. There were too many people, and I guess it caused me to panic."

I avoided her studious gaze, willing my thoughts not to show on my face. After an eternity, she again nodded, "So crowds are still too much for you?"

Not wanting to expand further, I just shrugged. This answer was unacceptable to the doctor, as the corners of her mouth turned down and scrunched her flawless chin. The clock ticked by second by endless second until she adjusted her legs once more. "Fine. We will let this instance go, chalking it up to crowd-induced panic for now; however, I will inform your mother we still need to have three sessions per week."

She stood up from the leather chair, moving behind her desk. I forced the anger each stoke of her pen caused me as she scribbled notes. I froze, not moving a muscle. I tried to combat the real fear that if I moved, said, or thought the wrong thing, Dr Ashley Cunningham would call my mother and escort me back to the hell known as Cunningham Mental Health Clinic. A slight vibration came from the watch on her wrist, signaling my session timed out. "Before you go, are you seeing any hallucinations or hearing conversations with things that others cannot see and/or hear?"

"No, ma'am, Tally has been checking in. Since the med combo started working, I've had no further issues."

"Good, I'll check with Tally regarding the medication."

I nodded and stood, thankful Tally, the M.A. Mother had hired to administer my medication, was there to avoid further doubts about me not taking my meds. My hand reached for the doorknob, grateful for this to be over, when Dr. Cunningham's voice stopped me. "Hello, Ma'am…. Yes, we just finished. She will be on her way home soon…"

I didn't stick around to hear my entire session relayed to my mother. It was already hard enough that both women made decisions about my life as if I were completely invisible.