Social Anxiety Disorder. That’s what the psychiatrists said it was. I didn’t believe them. I didn’t need to believe them, because I knew what I had. I’ve always had it.

I don’t remember much from when I was little. Mostly just a general feeling of uncertainty, like I had no sense of self growing up. The pieces I do remember are vivid though. Once, I walked into a classroom filled with people I had never met before, and my condition struck me as a massive wave. I was paralyzed, barely cognizant of my surroundings. Someone walked me to my desk; I hadn’t realized, not even after the visions stopped. My parents, bless their souls, tried their best to help me in every way possible. Doctor visits, brain scans, psychological wellness exams, the whole nine yards. Nobody ever figured it out. How could they? Nothing like it had ever existed before. It shouldn’t be possible. I shouldn’t be possible.

And yet here I am, 30 years later. Sitting alone in an office filled with whatever bobbles and curios people saw fit to give to me, mostly crystals or semiprecious gemstones and the like. Thought to harness good energy. It’s all bullshit of course, but whatever helps the weird people that walk in my door. Rarely do I get the Joes and Janes walking down the street; most of them think me a quack, and I don’t blame them. What I have really does seem otherworldly.

A knock at the door shakes me from my ruminating. I swing my chair around, facing the wall behind me.

“Come in,” I say, shutting my eyes.

The door opens and closes.

“Hey, sorry. I don’t have an appointment, but your sign says you take walk-ins?”

A woman. Probably early 20s.

“Yes, I do. Have a seat at the chair.”

“Uh, ok.” The chair scrapes along the ground as she pulls it back and takes a seat.

Silence.

“So, uh. You’re like, a holistic doctor, right? But for therapy or something like that?”

“Yes, indeed I am. Why don’t you tell me what’s going on in your life?”

“Well,” she says, her voice skeptical and questioning. “I’ve been going through some things lately. My… my mother died a few weeks ago, and my girlfriend said she couldn’t handle me how I was and left. It’s been a rough month, and I kind of just wanted to talk about it.” The words came out mostly smoothly. Her voice didn’t shake or waver. She’s said this before.

“Hm. Let’s do an exercise,” I reply. “I want you to close your eyes and count to 20. While you’re counting, focus on your breathing.”

Silence. I wait, until I hear her sigh. Her breathing comes out rhythmically, in and out. Only now do I turn and face her, eyes open.

I’m sitting in the rain at the bus stop, still staring down the dark road. It’s been an hour and 40 minutes, and there’s no sign of one coming. They were supposed to stop at 10 on weekends, there should have been one by now. I’ve called mom, dad, even my bro and no one answered. No less than four unread texts in each of their inboxes. I curl up. They’ve forgotten me again. I’m no one to them, not worth remembering, not worth thinking about. I’m just a burden to them. Of course they would forget me. I burst into tears, thankful for the rain. Why am I always alone?! Why?!

The memory stops, and I’m in the office. The girl in front of me still has her eyes closed. Two ear piercings on her left ear, a grayscaled flannel with black arm sleeves. Hair tied back into a pony tail. No makeup, no lipstick, just a normal person. Yet behind that I know what she feels, because I’ve felt it, as vividly as I feel this moment now. I don’t even know her name, and yet I know everything about her.

I focus on my breathing along with her, filing her memory away into a vault. When she opens her eyes, I smile. “Ready to begin?”