Bubble Brain

I wring my hands nervously as I sit on the leather armchair in the waiting room. Mom stayed just long enough to help me fill out the paperwork, but she left to go back to the office. And, I'll be taking the bus after this for every future appointment anyway. I could tell I'm the last appointment of the day because the secretary was already cleaning up her area for the evening. I'm sure as soon as I go in for my appointment, she'll be booking it out of here for whatever Friday night plans she has. I'm a little jealous as all my friends are going to a party I am not allowed to attend, so I have zero plans tonight other than this session. Not that I was invited.

I start playing with the hem of my shirt, almost wishing I had chosen something other than this old faded t-shirt I got for service work with school. I shift uncomfortably in the chair, my jeans cutting into my flesh. I recently developed these curves, which is why I cover them up. They make me feel fat, even though, logically I know women tend to start filling out around my age.

I decide to flip through a random magazine, not really reading any of the articles or paying much attention to any of the photos. I hadn't noticed that his office door had opened, and he was standing there staring at me.

"Miss Park, you can go for the evening," he calls over to his secretary. "I will make sure to mark down any future appointments for Miss..." he eyes me, waiting for my assistance.

"Kylie," I squeak. Damn nerves. He just smiles, and oh what a smile. I can feel myself blushing at my sudden crush on my therapist.

"Yes, Kylie," he winks before turning his attention back to Miss Park. "I will mark down any of Kylie's future appointments and lock up. You just enjoy your weekend." I can tell Miss Park thinks he's attractive as well from how she also blushes and smiles.

"Thank you, Dr. Wiltshire. Have a lovely weekend!" And with those last words, Miss Park was gone. I watch as Dr. Wiltshire walks over to lock the door behind her. "I don't want any walk-ins interrupting our session together," he explains before gesturing for me to move toward his office. I begin moving down the short hall to his open office door at the very end. "Take a seat on the couch," he commands, but in a friendly kind of way that sounds more like an offer. I follow his instruction either way as he closes his office door behind him.

I can feel my nerves going a little haywire as I realize I'm alone with the most real life attractive man I've met, and I'm supposed to be all open and vulnerable with him. I cross my legs, uncross them, then cross them again. Glancing around the room, I notice all the natural light and woods. Not what I really expected from a therapist's office, but maybe that's just because of the media's interpretation.

"So, Kylie," Dr. Wiltshire begins as he takes a seat on the armchair opposite the couch I'm on. "I know you and your mom filled out the online questionnaire together, but seeing as these sessions are for you," he places his ankle on his knee as he leans back, "I'd like to hear from you why you've decided to start therapy." He steeples his fingers beneath his chin, and watches me with a somehow intense yet gentle stare.

Twisting my hands in my lap, I answer, "I'm supposed to be heading off to college after this final semester, but I've started to develop some anxiety." My eyes move off him and down to my hands, embarrassed by the fact that it's crippling me enough to need therapy. "I didn't understand at first, so I took to Google and input my symptoms."

"Ah, a mistake many make," Dr. Wiltshire comments sounding a little amused. "I know it's silly to let the web diagnose me, but I watched a lot of videos from others who experience anxiety as well as some clinical therapist's accounts," I assure him, meeting his gaze again. "Plus, it makes sense with the end of high school nearing then a new chapter beginning. I won't be so reliant on my parents anymore. Entering adulthood is daunting." I watch as he makes a note in a notebook, which seems so old school to me, I almost laugh.

"Is it just the presumed anxiety then?" His head raises so that his eyes meet mine again, and I feel so small somehow.

"Yes, the anxiety," purposely dropping the "presumed" part, wanting him to believe me. Wanting him to take me seriously. I don't even realize my face scrunched into a disgruntled pout until I try to fix it back to something more neutral.

"I don't mean to offend you, Kylie," his smile morphing from amused to comforting in one smooth motion. "Change is scary, and it's natural for people to be nervous about it. That can often present itself as similar symptoms to a diagnosis of anxiety," he explains to me calmly. His explanation makes sense, but I'm still certain that it's more than just nerves. "Now, I like to get to know my patients before determining if there's something more than talk therapy to be done. I do like to make my environment as comfortable as possible since talking about yourself can be uncomfortable. To that end," Dr. Wiltshire pulls out his phone tapping on the screen a few times. The lights begin to dim, the blinds close and some kind of water sounds with music overlays begin to play. It's rhythmic, but I can almost hear words under all of the other sounds.

"What is this soundtrack? It sounds like sleep meditation music." My head sways back and forth to the gentle melody for a moment.

"It's pretty close, but we don't want you falling asleep, now do we?" The amused smile is back, only this time I find myself mirroring it.

"No, that would definitely be a waste of your time." I almost hear the words again, and I strain my ears to hear them more clearly. They come and go, like whispers on the wind in this nature soundscape.

"So, Kylie," Dr. Wiltshire's voice brings me back from finding those voices for a moment. "Why don't you get comfortable? I want you to treat these less like sessions with a doctor and more like confiding in someone you trust. You trust me, don't you?" The question is worded oddly, like he's giving me the answer at the same time. Yet, I find myself nodding in agreement.

"Yes, Dr. Wiltshire, I trust you," I answer, and am surprised to find it an honest one, despite having just met the man. I tug on the hem of my shirt, a nervous habit I never realized I developed until recently.

"Good girl," he murmurs, and I feel a fluttering in my stomach at those words. My mind reels back though. What a condescending remark to make to a patient. I debate saying so when I hear the whisper of words in the music again. I chase them, trying to discern what they're saying, forgetting his comment for a moment. "Kylie, when did you start noticing the symptoms, that you've related to anxiety, begin to appear?" My mind snaps back to the therapist, and I try to refrain from correcting him again. He explained himself already, and I do trust him and his process.

"I suppose it was at the beginning of this semester. Early application season is over, so it's really time to start cracking down on applying to back-up schools. I got my SATs and ACTs back as well, and they weren't as high as my parents and I were hoping for. Then, my teachers are all treating this as a time to cram in as many projects, papers and tests as possible to ensure we are fully prepared for the college experience," I can taste the resentment in my voice as I explain, only I don't know who that resentment is even for. I let go of my shirt, and grip the edge of the couch cushion instead.

"And how did your symptoms present themselves upon learning and dealing with all of that stress?" He glances up at me between notes he's making, and I find myself wondering what he could be writing about me. I almost ask, but then the whispered words drift across my ears again. I feel like I'm so close to understanding what they're saying if I just focus... "Kylie?" Dr. Wiltshire calls out softly, that amused grin on his face once again. I squirm in my seat, that look of his making me uncomfortable.

"I'm sorry, Dr. Wiltshire. I thought I almost picked up on the lyrics behind the music," explaining myself as I try to refocus on our session.

"Don't worry about the music right now, Kylie. I'll send you the file to listen to while you study to help make that a more relaxing environment for you. Perhaps you'll be able to figure it out after enough listens," he has an edge to his voice that I can't quite place. I nod and straighten myself, knowing that he's probably right regardless.

"Thank you, Dr. Wiltshire." He nods in return, then waits for me to continue. "I'm so sorry," blushing with embarrassment I ask, "Can you repeat the question?" He smirks, and I find myself wanting to be disgruntled by that. Only, I'm not. It's oddly attractive on him, despite the cockiness behind it.

"How did your symptoms present themselves when all these stressors arose?" He repeats for me, his face settling back to a more studious look. I sit back, getting comfortable again, trying to allow the dim lights and music help me to relax. I hear the whispered words, unable to really hear them, but allow them to pass without a chase this time.

"There were these moments where my heart felt like it was racing so fast, I thought it was a heart attack. Other times, my breathing would suddenly feel impossible, like every breath I attempted to take would come with so much effort. Sometimes, both of those would happen at once, and my thoughts would become so loud. Like a million little Kylie's all talking at once, reminding me of all that was expected of me." I could feel my heart rate picking up now just thinking about it, and a few of those voices beginning to overwhelm me with thoughts of all the school work I wasn't getting done by being here. Then, the sounds of water begin to flow in accompanied by a gentle strum of a harp. And those words...

"This happens whenever you think about schoolwork, college or being independent, doesn't it?" Dr. Wiltshire's question feels leading, but he's also not wrong. Is he? I think about it for a moment, and see the truth in his words.

"I guess, in a way, that's true," I answer, mulling over that thought for a moment. He studies me for a minute, and I can't help but feel odd. I should be uncomfortable under that gaze, but instead, I find myself shy and blushing, even a little turned on. "Why don't we move on from school for a moment?" He offers with a friendly smile, and I try to quell this odd crush forming for my therapist. "Tell me about your friends." I let out a small breath and think on how to approach this topic.

"Honestly?"

"We won't get to the root of any problems if we aren't honest with each other. You just have to trust me, remember?" My worry melts into a feeling of safety as I give a small nod.

"My friend group has grown to be a little toxic," I begin, letting out a sad sigh. "It started when my boyfriend and I broke up." Dr. Wiltshire sets his pen down, as if he's more interested in listening than diagnosing, and, for some reason, I find that oddly comforting. "Alex and I had been dating since eighth grade. Going into our senior year, we mutually decided to be single for our final year, so that nothing could hold us back from all the experiences."

"Do you feel like your relationship was holding you back before?" He asks, a genuine curiosity painting his tone.

"In a way, I do think it was," I confess. "I honestly believed he was the love of my life for most of our relationship. I gave up a lot of my weekends to spend time with him and his friends, who then became my friends. I lost my previous friendships as I got lost in him. Then, when we decided to end things, all those new friends I had made along the way, well..." I trail off, trying to figure out the exact words. "They didn't feel like real friends," Dr. Wiltshire finishes for me with a sympathetic tone. I nod as I try to hold back the tears.

"When I tried confiding in a couple of them about how it was mutual but difficult, they only made me feel worse. One of them even said now she could have a chance to show him a good time since he was probably bored of me." My lower lip quivers, so I bite it to try and suppress this heartache. I don't want to be a sitting cliche in this appointment either, crying to my therapist about a lost love.

"Was the sex not good?" The question is so forward, I just stare blankly at him for a moment. I'm a tad horrified that he would ask such a personal question, therapist or not. I want to tell him that's none of his business, but then I hear the words again. I chase them, they felt so clear for a moment. "I don't mean any offence, Kylie. Even if the sex was bad, that's usually at the fault of inexperience, not you personally," his reassurances calm me again, and I take a deep breath to relax my mind. I don't know why, but I feel better that he doesn't think I'm bad in bed. Why would I care what Dr. Wiltshire thinks how I am in bed?

"We only had sex a few times, toward the end of our relationship," I explain, getting myself back on track. "I think I knew we were over before that, but I thought maybe sex would reignite that spark. I know, that's completely cliche."

"Not as unusual as you might think though. I know many adults who stay in relationships past their expiration dates, using sex and getting pregnant as a metaphorical bandaid. Usually, it's not the answer. There are exceptions, but it sounds like you and Alex were not one of those." I shake my head no, and he nods. "So, just to recap for a moment, you ended a long-term relationship, lost most friendships in the process and not long after, school became far more overwhelming than it ever has felt before." Everything he lists feels like a knife to the gut, and all I can do is nod. "Hmm," he hums as he makes a few notes again. I remain quiet while he catches his notes up to our conversation. Sinking into the couch, my mind goes back to the music again. The words drift in and out, so soft, drowning out in the water running through the soundtrack. If I focus hard enough, I know I can discern what they're saying. I close my eyes, strain my ears and quiet my breathing so that I can listen better. My core warms, and I find myself getting aroused. I should be more worried about getting that way in front of my therapist, but then the music quiets all those other nagging Kylies down.

"Why don't we talk about your home life, now?" Dr. Wiltshire offers, breaking me away from the music, the words, once again. My thighs pressing tightly together, trying to create subtle friction to alleviate the build up. My eyes flutter open though, and I blink him back into focus. Those eyes stare back with so much kindness, I find myself blushing again.

"My home life?" I ask, clearing my throat a little.

"Yes, but first, let me get you a drink," he states as he rises from his chair. I'm about to protest, but then the music stops me. I don't quite catch the words, but I feel this overwhelming need to show Dr. Wiltshire that I can listen.

There's a part of my mind that's telling me I should be concerned about how distracted I am by this music, but it's meant to be relaxing. Maybe it's part of the psychology of treating people with anxious tendencies to have a bit of mystery in the music, a puzzle to unravel. I hear water being poured into a glass, and it somehow fits perfectly with the sound of the water in the music. I find it all soothing in a way I can't yet explain. My thighs squeeze together again, and a sigh escapes my parted lips.

"Here you go," Dr. Wiltshire whispers. I open my eyes to see him standing in front of me, much closer than I realized. He's holding a drink out to me, but it's not water. It's pink and sparkling I notice as I watch the little bubbles dancing up from the bottom.

"What is it?" I ask as I tentatively reach for the glass. I glance down at the contents, mesmerized by the bubbles as they rise chaotically.

"A secret recipe," Dr. Wiltshire states with a wink. "It has everything you need for it to be refreshing, while also helping with the relaxation process. I was actually going to send some home with you," he explains as he moves back to sit in his chair. "I'm not a fan of prescription drugs, and find they are over-distributed these days. I've developed more natural stimulants over the years depending on what one is experiencing. The music, low lights and this drink are a perfect combination for someone displaying the kind of symptoms you seem to be." I take a sip of the drink, and it's actually sweeter than expected. Not a sickly sweet though, just an undertone.

"Wow. Well, whatever it is, it tastes really nice," I smile at him, which he returns. I can't seem to help the blush and shy giggle that accompanies his smile at me.

"I'm glad you like it. I want you to have one full glass a day, minimum, while listening to this music. Keep drinking, but let's also get back to your home life. You mentioned how your parents are disappointed in your test scores earlier. Are they pretty hard on you in general?" He jumps back into our conversation, picking up his pen and notebook again.

"I don't know if it's fair of me to say they're hard on me. I just know they want the best for me," my voice soft as I explain. I take another sip, thinking how I've often unfairly thought of them being too hard on me.

"They want the best for you, but have they asked you what that looks like for you?" Dr. Wiltshire asks, his eyes feeling as though they're piercing my very soul. I quickly shift my eyes back down to the contents of the glass, which is already half empty. I chew on his question, that resentment bubbling back up.

"Well, I'm young," I answer in a way that they would anytime I've said something similar to them.

"I don't want to hear what your parents would tell me, Kylie. This is about you. Your needs. Your desires. You're a woman, with her own mind, right?" I nod, feeling the fire in his words igniting in my soul. "Good girl," he repeats those words again, which seem so out of place after what he just said. Only this time, I don't find them so off-putting. "You never really had any desire to go to college, did you?" Another question with the answer right in there.

I open my mouth to rebut him, but then stop. The music cascading down, dimming the fire for a moment. Did I ever want to go to college, or was I just going through the motions of what I thought I was supposed to do? I swallow the remaining contents of the glass and set it on the table in front of me as I ponder how to answer.

"I guess, I never realized that wasn't something I didn't want. I just assumed I didn't know what I wanted out of it," I confess this new-found realization.

"That's why so much of your stress has really just started to build. Deep down, you always knew it wasn't the path you were meant to be on. Even in this final semester of school, it's unnecessary stress because you won't be needing any of it when it's all over." His words sound so sympathetic, and so true. The thought makes me feel as floaty as those bubbles in my drink. Wait, no, that can't be right. I do need school... Right?

"I won't be needing it?" There's that comforting, sympathetic smile again. That floaty feeling returns to me as I say the words aloud, the music washing through me at the same time. My own wetness becoming more noticeable.

"I think I'm starting to understand what all this presumed anxiety really is," he says instead of answering my question. I lean forward, waiting for him to tell me what's wrong with me. "I'll need a few more sessions to be certain, of course. Early diagnoses can often lead to incorrect treatment," he explains, and I sit back against the couch nodding. "There's one last thing I want to discuss before we wrap up today's session," he states as he sets his pen down.