5-4-3-2-1

Talia Stotts

 

The door finally closes, and I exhale deeply, letting my chin droop to my chest. My neck is sore, as it is most days. I don’t know if it’s the stress or the fact that I’m just at “that age,” but 33 seems too young to complain of achy joints.

I roll my head up slowly, the way they tell you to do it in yoga class.

“Oh shoot!” I mutter, looking at the plain school-issue clock on the wall. 5:47. I’m going to miss yoga again. It’s been weeks since I’ve been able to make it. That’s probably why my neck is hurting so bad.

I stand slowly and pack my things into my bag. Laptop. Paperwork. Phone. A student file.

Here, I pause.

Alex Wells.

He seemed like every other teenager to walk through my office door. Sweet and lost and sad. That’s the reason they come to me. They need someone to hear them – really hear them – and tell them what to do.

I find myself sitting again, looking at the boy’s picture on the inside of the folder. His chestnut hair is styled carefully, and his smile is charming. His skin is a golden brown, fresh from the long days of summer.

I can feel my mind start to wander, thinking over my own teenaged summers, too long ago, when my own black skin glistened with sweat in the sunshine. When I was on top of the world and ready to face the possibilities of life.

But just behind the smiling eyes in the picture before me, I sensed a glint of uncertainty. I knew it well. It turns out that navigating the oh-so-many possibilities of life is more than just a tad challenging, and I feel that even now I’m a child lost at sea.

“Ok, that’s enough,” I tell myself aloud. “Just go home.”

I slip the folder into my bag and heave it onto my back. I know it’s silly that I use a backpack, and my small stature doesn’t help. I guess it’s good that I leave after all the students are gone; it’s no fun being mistaken for a school-aged student and scolded for loitering around campus.

I wheel my bicycle – another mistake, I know – out of my office and into the hallway. I turn to lock the door. It’s decorated with a name plate: “Dr. Rose.”  I cringe. I don’t feel like a doctor. I don’t feel like I know enough to have that title, despite the years of study and dissertations and theses. I feel like an imposter.

I turn away quickly and head to the exit, saying goodbye to the last of the stragglers – band students leaving practice, a couple of football players, two weary English teachers.

Halfway home, I make a last-second turn into the park, a sprawling hilly forest surrounding a lily-padded pond. I coast down the first hill and up the next, slowing to a stop at the wooden bench under the magnolia tree. Flipping the kickstand down, I dismount and sink onto the bench, dropping my bag next to me.

I’m too young to be this tired.

To distract myself from, well, myself, I turn my gaze to the pond below, where ducks are swimming lazily. I spot a turtle sunning itself on a log. A fish ripples the water’s surface.

I chuckle. I’ve been teaching anxious students grounding techniques for six years now, and they come to me subconsciously, I guess. I decide to continue with the 5-4-3-2-1 method. It’s a classic.

Ok, five things you can see. Duck, turtle, fish. Two more.

Suddenly it’s like I’m blind. Or my brain is broken. Like I’m seeing everything all at once but can’t pick out a single thing. Or name it.

I take a breath and release it.

Wildflowers. Spider.

Good, now four things you can feel.

Hair on my neck. Wood. The inside of my shoes. Bracelet.

Three you can hear. Easy.

Rustling leaves. A crow. Distant traffic.

It is easier now. It is working.

Two smells.

Magnolia flowers. Dirt.

One thing you can taste.

I reach down, happy that my spot comes complete with a small blackberry bramble. I look for the familiar deep purple hue, but it’s still too early in the season.

One unripe berry.

I take another breath and hold it, feeling light and calm. Funny, I hadn’t realized I was that stressed out.

I exhale deeply and let my shoulders sink down. The turtle is gone from the log, and I realize the sun is setting.

As I stand to leave, my phone buzzes – a text from Olivia.

Hey! We’re all meeting at Hunter’s for drinks at 8 – you in? It’s Margarita Monday!

I love a margarita as much as the next girl, but I don’t know if I can do it tonight. I know there’s no easy way out of this. I don’t have a good excuse, as far as they’re concerned.

You don’t have kids and soccer practice and ballet classes to deal with. All you have is work, and after that you’re home free! And you work at a school, so you get summers off! You can do whatever you want, like, all the time.

They’re not wrong. There’s a certain freedom that not having kids gives me – like impromptu meditation sessions in the park after a particularly hard day – I can’t deny that. And they may not be my own flesh and blood, but my students are my kids. I care about them, even love them.

But it’s not really like being a mom, you know. You get to send them home, and you don’t have to worry about feeding them or taking them to the hospital when they’re sick!

Again, they’re not wrong, really. But sometimes I don’t get to “send them home” until hours after the bell has rung because they’re too afraid to go home. And my friends don’t know about the cabinet full of granola bars and Gatorade for the students who haven’t eaten since lunch yesterday. And in a school of 2200, there have been more than enough sick kids I’ve had to help get home or to a hospital.

Suddenly, I feel that familiar uncertainty creep back in. Maybe I do have it easy. Maybe I’m not cut out to do anything more than be a school counselor.

I ignore the text and get back on my bicycle. I’m home within fifteen minutes, which is good because it’s getting dark. Once inside, I head into the kitchen and, faced with a fridge full of uncooked ingredients, grab a handful of grapes and flip on the TV. My phone buzzes again. Olivia.

Hello? Are you coming? We all got sitters, so it’s now or never, haha!

I hate this. The guilt trip. As if I’m not allowed to be tired or stressed and have to do everything they want when it’s convenient for them because they finally got a babysitter.

I pop a grape into my mouth as I think of what to reply. I’m tempted to ignore it again. And why shouldn’t I? Wouldn’t that show them I’m just as busy as they are?

No. It would just show them that you think you’re too good for them.

I sigh. It’s true. Missing out on Margarita Monday means I’ve got better things to do than hang out with a bunch of moms. Not that that’s all they are. Olivia’s in marketing. Jenna is an accountant. I’m not sure exactly what Maritza does, but it’s something in home healthcare. Really, they’re the women who do it all, the kind you read about in magazines, the ones who are main characters in sitcoms.

I put my thumbs to my phone and tap out a reply.

I’ll be there! See you soon!

By the time I’ve changed clothes, refreshed my makeup and closed the door behind me, I wonder if I’ve made a mistake. I love these girls – we’ve been friends since college and weeknight cocktails aren’t unusual in our group. But since they all got married and started having kids, I’ve been forced to wonder if we really have anything in common anymore. It’s starting to feel like we don’t.

A pang of insecurity punches me in the stomach.

When I arrive at the bar, the girls are already there, a pitcher of margarita on the table, four glasses at the ready.

“There you are!” Maritza exclaims when she sees me. “Drinks just arrived, so you’re right on time. How are you?”

We greet each other, hugging and commenting on new haircuts and pretty manicures, and finally clink our glasses together. Jenna starts to speak after our first delicious sip.

“So, what is going on with you all? Our last hangout was…” She pauses to think, looking upwards as if our calendar is written on the ceiling.

“Sunday brunch, four, maybe five weeks ago?” finishes Maritza.

“No, it was six,” says Olivia. “I remember because it was the day after Jeremy’s birthday party, and I was so desperate to get out of the house and just left Cole to clean up. I had to run the whole party by myself – half a dozen middle school boys for a sleepover are no joke! Pizza boxes and Mountain Dew cans everywhere! So anyway, six weeks ago.”

“Six weeks is too long, ladies. We need to get our lives together so we can enjoy more margs!”

Something I can agree with! I feel like no matter what I do, there’s never enough time to get anything done. I may not be on my feet all day, but the emotional drain quickly translates to physical exhaustion.

“Cheers to that!” I say, holding my glass up high. The girls laugh, and we clink again, splashing the table.

“Oh, come on!” begins Olivia. “You’ve got plenty of time, Amelia! School’s out by 3:30 and you’re not even a teacher so it’s not like you have to bring work home with you or anything.”

My mind flits back to the folder in my backpack. Alex.

He’s gay. There are several gay students at the school. And he’s just like every one of them that have come to see me. Unsure, frustrated, scared. I talked to him the way I talk to the others. I let him know he was not alone, that things would get better, that he was loved. Of course, his parents aren’t making it easy for him, but parents seldom do. That was one reason I could never have a child – parents are the worst by nature, and I just don’t think my fragile ego could take it.

“I don’t have to grade essays or anything, but usually my day is spent meeting with students and teachers, and I don’t get the chance to do all my paperwork, so I have to bring it home with me.”

“At least you can do it with a glass of wine! Imagine trying to do it with a baby on your hip – and that’s just the beginning! Sorry to tell you, Jenna.” Olivia elbows Jenna lightly and smirks.

Jenna’s the newest mother of the group. She’s only just gone back to work after a very extended maternity leave. Her kid is in the throes of the Terrible Twos, so after a day of crunching numbers she gets to come home to a screaming toddler.

Jenna is unfazed by Olivia’s comment. She seems to be taking it all in stride, the same way Olivia and Maritza had when they became mothers – reveling in the matriarchal martyrdom of sleepless nights and dirty diapers.

“And would you believe that Ethan and I are crazy enough to try for number two?”

“Jenna! That’s amazing!” coos Olivia.

“You’re going to love having two!” says Maritza. “I mean, you’ll never sleep again, but you’ll love it!”

The three of them laugh knowingly together, as if insomnia is exclusive to the procreative, but I see a twinge in Jenna’s face, a slight struggle behind the smile. She sets down her glass and excuses herself to the restroom.

“Be back in just a sec. Order another pitcher, will you? It’s mommy’s night off!” She turns and heads to the back of the bar and as she walks away, I see her hand rise to her face, and I swear I hear a sniffle.

“Grab a pitcher of water, too,” I say as I stand up from the table. “I cannot be hungover tomorrow!” Olivia and Maritza laugh, and I make my way to the restroom. Inside I find Jenna leaning on the sink, looking into the dirty mirror.

I don’t speak, and her eyes look up at me through the glass. “Amelia…”

Her lips quiver and I know that face. It’s the face saying, “I can’t hold back these tears that I’ve been trying to hold back for too long and I’m scared of letting out all of these emotions.” I’ve seen it hundreds of times. Students who have been abused. Teachers who are burned out. Divorcees.

I rush over and embrace her. “It’s ok,” I say, “don’t talk now. Just cry for a minute.”

It’s strange how people need permission to cry.

She sobs into my shoulder, and I let her. I can tell she’s been waiting for this – a literal shoulder to cry on. The weight of her head is familiar, comfortable. Like my shoulder was made for holding up weary heads and making them feel less tired.

When her crying has reached a natural end, she straightens up and pushes her hair off of her wet cheek.

Still, I don’t speak. I can see her mind pick through the settling whirlwind of thoughts, trying to find where to start. Her eyes dance around the floor until finally slowing to a stop.

“Amelia, I can’t do this anymore. It’s too much. It’s just all too much! I’ve only been back at work for three weeks and my boss hates me and I keep screwing up simple things and then I get home and I have to deal with Ellie and dinner and… and I just can’t anymore.” She heaves a deep breath outward, emboldened by her own voice. “And then there’s Ethan, who, when he’s not finding some excuse to not have to feed or bathe, our daughter is pawing at me like a rutting deer!” Her voice is louder now. “And then, after feeling insufficient at work and with my kid and with my husband, I have to come here and meet up with my best friends in the whole world and still feel insufficient! I’m drowning! I’m failing! I’m –”

Her breath is coming in gasps now as the whirlwind starts up again. I can see her getting swept up in the thoughts, so I grab her hands and speak quietly.

“Jenna, it’s ok. It’s going to be ok.”

“But – it’s not! I – can’t –” Her breath is heaving, and her eyes are wide. I gently lower her to the ground as her legs wobble.

“Jenna, what can you see?”

She looks at me in a bewildered panic.

“Just look around and tell me something you can see.”

“The…sink,” she pants.

“Good. What else?”

We continue through 5-4-3-2-1, and by the time she says she can taste the margarita mix on her tongue her breathing has returned to normal, and she is ready to stand.

My therapy brain switches off, and I land on college-friend brain. “You’re not insufficient, by the way. Your family loves you. We all love you. And you’re doing amazing! If anyone should feel inadequate in our group, it’s me. And I do, actually. I am the lowly non-mom, you know.” I roll my eyes, waiting for her to agree that, yes, I am the deficient one who has nothing to worry about. Instead, she grabs me by both shoulders.

“Ames, are you kidding?” She seems genuinely confused.

“Um…no?”

“Amelia Kathleen Rose – no, scratch that – Doctor Amelia Kathleen Rose – you are the most successful one out of all of us! You’re out there living the dream! A great job, no kids, no husband, and a freaking title – if we knew what we were getting into before we did, I think we’d all have followed your lead.”

I look away, sure that she is simply trying to placate me. I wouldn’t be tricked so easily.

“But Ames,” she continues, “we’re just jealous. You know that, right? I mean, yes, we all love our kids more than anything and would throw ourselves in front of a moving vehicle for them, yadda yadda yadda. It’s true…but we didn’t really realize we had a choice, you know?”

“Yet you guys act like I do nothing but drink wine every evening and travel all summer. Do you know I worked over twelve hours today? And the same yesterday? And that I’m on campus two Saturdays a month? And that I have trainings all summer?”

I’m getting too heated and pull back a bit.

“Look, Jen, I know my life would be more difficult if I had kids like you guys, but it’s hard as it is. And I think it’s ok for you guys to recognize that sometimes. You’re not the only ones who get tired you know. I almost said no to coming out tonight.”

Jenna squeezes my shoulder reassuringly. “I’m sorry, Amelia. Really. We don’t think you have it easier. It’s just…you know, the grass is always greener. But if your work includes deescalating panic attacks like you had to with me tonight – but with teenagers – I can imagine you have your work cut out for you! I was some wreck!”

We laugh and turn to the mirror, wiping away our respective mascara smears.

“Seriously, though,” says Jenna, “thanks for that…whatever it was. It really helped me calm down. It’s just been so difficult lately. I’d been holding it all in for quite a while now.”

I smile. “Anytime.”

****

When I get home, I’m exhausted – a good exhausted. I brush my teeth and crawl into bed, opening a folder on my lap.

Alex Wells.

He’s coming back to my office tomorrow for a longer talk, and I wonder if I’ll know what to say or how to help. There’s always doubt, but not tonight. After Jenna’s panic attack and our bathroom chat, I feel somehow surer of myself. It was ridiculous of Jenna to think that she was out of her depth or incompetent. Is it so crazy to think that my insecurity was also unfounded?

I decide that it isn’t.

I write out some thoughts and ideas for my meeting with Alex the next morning, gathering resources and support group information. The ever-present self-doubt seems to have disappeared – but that could just be the margaritas.

****

I am awake before my alarm, and I am pleased to note the lack of nausea and headache. I must have drunk enough water last night. Grateful for my foresight, I get ready for work and head out. I’m early as usual, and there are only a few students milling about outside. I greet them and walk my bike into the building towards my office.

The clacking of the gears echoes through the empty hallway, and when I turn the corner, I am surprised to see a figure sitting on the floor at my door.

I gasp as the figure – a boy – turns his face upward to me. “Dr. Rose?”

“Alex! My word, what happened?”

He is crying, a deep purple bruise glowing around one eye. I pull him to his feet and together we walk into my office. We sit on the sofa, and as he looks at me with that look – before the screaming whirlwind of thoughts begins – I brace myself for the storm.

“Alex, tell me five things you can see.”