Page 3 of A Wistful Symphony

Anxiety Blues

T he clock ticks on the wall behind the secretary’s desk.

One, two, three, four.

Seconds hammer in my mind, loud as thunder, over and over. Why is this clock’s hand so damn noisy? By now, the sound is so rooted, my heart beats to the same rhythm. One, two, three, four . Sixty beats per minute. Adagio.

I ghost-play the adagio from Beethoven’s Pathétique sonata on my lap. Perhaps imagining music to the beats will shut up my thoughts and distract me, but the adagio only lasts five minutes and twelve seconds. And there are still twenty minutes left until my appointment. Shit.

It’s been three years since I started coming to Dr Cameron’s office, once a month like clockwork, and it’s always the same.

The waiting room has an old, gloomy atmosphere.

Dark wood furniture, olive green upholstered chairs and the ugliest nature-themed wallpaper on Earth.

Dr Cameron must’ve let his mother decorate the place.

Even the magazines seem to be chosen by an old-timer.

Who the hell wants to read about vintage cars and the best season to grow turnips?

The secretary taps away at a clunky keyboard. Mid-thirties, brunette pixie cut with a coloured scarf. She only ceases the myriad of teeth-grinding clacks to answer the phone, have her occasional afternoon snack of a tuna sandwich and Diet Coke, or deliver gems of pointless information.

She demonstrates this last with an oblivious smile. “Dr Cameron will be right with you, Eric.”

Sure, but not for another twenty minutes. Is this supposed to make me feel better? “Thanks.” I nod and go back to staring at my lap. Arriving this early is pointless, but I can’t help it. Damn anxiety.

I distractedly touch the arm of the chair.

The green cushion is faded, splattered with greyish stains.

Probably hasn’t been cleaned in months. I pluck my fingers off of the surface and hurry for the flask of hand sanitiser in my pocket.

The keen scent of alcohol slowly muffles my mind and drops my heart rate.

Breathe and stop thinking.

I need to look as normal as possible today.

If Dr Cameron finds out I’ve been dwelling on my compulsions to purge intrusive thoughts, he’ll increase my meds.

I’ve been on a high dosage before, and I know what it does to my body.

Numbness, memory lapses, loss of coordination.

My admittance audition at the Royal Academy of Music is just a few months away.

If my mind isn’t in perfect shape, at least my hands must be.

I will not let this thing or Dr Cameron jeopardise my future.

Stop thinking.

The front door creaks and soft steps are muffled on the carpet. It’s hardly necessary to lift my gaze and find out who’s here, but I do it anyway.

“Hello, Andrew, you’re early today. Have a seat,” the secretary announces.

Of course it’s you. Why she would make such an idiotic observation is beyond me, since you’re early for every appointment. In fact, so goddamn early you have to sit here with me, wait through my entire appointment and only then have yours.

You’ve done that every month for the past year and a half.

Sharing the waiting room with another person is inconvenient on its own, but that someone being you is vexing.

Even when you say nothing, which is most times, I can still feel your presence.

A glaring monolith, scanning me with curious yet distant eyes.

Makes me feel like a circus freak. When you dare to talk, throwing me a range of aloof questions, it’s even worse.

Maybe I’m a little intimidated by you. You’re the only son of Reverend Westcott, head of one of the most respected families in town.

I pass by your house on Gardenia Street every day when I bike to school and imagine what it would be like growing up in that place.

It’s at least four times bigger than Nan’s cottage, and you don’t share the space with an annoying sister and an inconvenient cousin. Must be nice.

Everything about you reeks of old money, from your posh accent and tailored clothes to the golden cross you always bear around your neck.

It angers me to know you could have everything you want handed to you and enter any university with your father’s wealth and prestige—the same safety net I lost before moving to this town.

My acrimony might’ve lessened if you were the typical mediocre rich kid, but no.

You’re talented. We’ve shared music classes since year 12, and your technique with the violin is freakishly precise.

I have no shame in stating I’m above average on the piano; after all, few people can say they got Distinction in Grade 8 at sixteen.

But you? It pains me to admit you’re better than me.

And you go about your day like bloody Paganini reincarnated and don’t even give a shit.

I can stand it in school. There we’re equals, fellow music students in the same grade. But in this waiting room, stripped of my leverage, it’s easy to feel undermined by you. I don’t want you looking at me. Not here.

Stop. Thinking.

“Hey, Lowell.” You take the seat in front of me.

“Hey, Westcott.” I pull a stack of magazines from the rack and sort them alphabetically. Not that I care for the stupid magazines, but putting things in order makes the thoughts go numb, if only for a minute.

“Why are you arranging the magazines?”

Great. It’s one of the chatty days.

“I tidy up Dr Cameron’s office to help Mum pay for the appointment,” I say with the tiniest of smirks.

“Really? But he practices under the NHS. The appointment should be free.”

I raise an eyebrow. Is inability to understand sarcasm the reason you go to a psychiatrist?

“Forget it.” I shake my head and put the darn things back.

You let it go, despite the persistent furrow between your brows.

Your attention lingers at some distant point on the wallpaper, like you haven’t been here enough to have its horrid patterns memorised.

I practice deep breathing. Maybe you’ll take the hint and leave me alone, but just in case, I take a pair of earbuds out of my pocket. Not fast enough.

“How’s Rach’s Presto going?” You glance heedlessly at me again.

Damn, you had to go for the jugular.

I’ve been practicing Rachmaninoff’s Six Moments Musicaux Op.

16 N. 4: Presto, for my audition. Everyone at home can’t stand it anymore, so I stay late at school to avoid the whining.

It’s a risky piece for sure, but I was certain with enough practice I’d nail it and impress my evaluators.

It’s not going quite as planned, and now it’s too late to change course.

“Crappy as ever,” I mutter.

“The coda still?”

“Yup.”

“You know, your wrists are too tense when you get to the octave jump sequence on bar 59. It makes you miss the tempo.”

I stare in bleak silence for a second or two.

My wrists are tense because the gruelling rhythm wrecks my nerves every time I play.

The damn jumps revolve in my mind even when I sleep, so when they finally arrive, my arms are stiff as stone.

It took Mr Hennessey a few rounds to point that out to me, but of course you noticed by casually listening to my practices. You’re such a freak, Westcott.

“You don’t have to do this,” I blurt out.

“Do what?”

“Small talk. I’m comfortable with sitting here in silence. Prefer it, even.”

“Oh.” You nibble your lower lip. “Okay. Sorry.”

You glance down, grasping the seat of your chair. Guilt overtakes me. Shit, you were just trying to be nice, and I scolded you like a complete arse. “Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude. It’s just not a good day.”

You give me a reassuring grin. “I get it. Psychiatrist’s office isn’t the best place to make friends.”

“Damn right it’s not.” I attempt a chuckle.

“I hate coming here too, if it helps.”

“Why do you get here so early, then?” Surely it isn’t for my natural charm.

“I come straight from my afternoon classes. It’s better than going home, I guess.” You shrug and look away.

My eyebrows knit. I understand the feeling of not wanting to be home, but how much worse could Westcott House be than the stinking shrink?

The answer rushes in horrific words and images. They have nothing to do with you, though. It’s just my mind playing tricks.

I urge the thoughts away. That’s not a place I want to go right now. Still, they keep nagging, scratching and spinning like a broken record. Loud. So freakishly loud. I shut my eyes tight and shake my head. Why does it have to be like this?

Please. Just. Stop.

Your voice calls my attention. “Are you alright?”

“It’s fine. Just a headache.”

“Maybe you should tell Dr Cameron about that.”

“Uh-hum,” I mumble. That’s the last thing I’d do.

The waiting room grows quiet, which I’m thankful for. My cool act wouldn’t last much longer. I breathe deeply and count the seconds in a minute, forwards and backwards. It helps. When I feel calm enough, my gaze leaves the ground.

Your eyes are not on me. In fact, as if sensing I need privacy, you make an effort to look anywhere but.

You slouch in your seat, repetitively rubbing your hands on your slacks.

It’s obvious you want to be here as little as I do, which makes me wonder why you’re seeing a psychiatrist in the first place.

Aside from some social awkwardness, you seem fine.

But who knows what lies beneath the surface?

I’m living proof of how much shit one person can hide under an ‘almost normal’ facade. You might well be the same.

Are we alike, Westcott? For your sake, I hope not.

“See you next month, Mrs Hendriks.” Dr Cameron’s voice sounds through a freshly opened door, and the lady in the preceding appointment comes out.

She’s no older than fifty, but deep lines mark her face, over the lips and at the corners of her eyes.

Her hair must’ve been a deep chestnut once but now is multiple shades of grey.

She doesn’t dye it or wear makeup. Her eyes are red and watery.

She cries at almost every appointment. When I started coming here, I made it a game to guess the diagnoses of those in the waiting room.

It was amusing at first. It stopped being so a long time ago.

I throw Mrs Hendriks a swift nod and she responds with a hint of a smile. The front door closes behind her. We’ll see each other for months to come, I reckon, until I bail out of this bloody town. Might as well be gentle.

I should’ve offered you the same courtesy.

“You can come in now, Eric.” The doctor stands by his office.

I push myself up, my whole body committed to staying put.

“Good luck.” You smile, and this time I return the gesture. Then it’s just me and Dr Cameron.

He settles on a high presidential chair and offers me one of the two armchairs in front of him. Everything is overly white. The mixture of bright ivory, chalk and eggshell tones—which are essentially the same—feels like standing in a void. It’s unsettling. Claustrophobic even.

“How have you been doing, Eric?” His glance bounces from me to the computer screen while retrieving my medical record.

I keep it simple. “Good. I’m carrying on with my studies, practising a lot. Being functional.”

“How are the intrusive thoughts going? Any new themes?”

“Nope. Just the old contamination and ‘just right’ ones.”

“And the compulsions?”

“Bare minimum.” That’s one big fat lie. “I’m doing well at balancing them. It’s been great, really.”

The typing stops and Dr Cameron’s stare pierces me through his silver square glasses. Damn, he can smell my bullshit.

“Could you show me your hands?”

“Why?” Caught off guard, I curl my fingers in the thick creases of my jeans, as if that could prevent anything.

“Please, indulge me.” He extends his palm over the desk, urging me to do the same.

I slowly lay both arms on the glass surface, and he examines my hands one by one.

The skin is dry. It’s peeling in tiny bits on one palm from the excessive contact with soap and hand sanitiser.

His gaze lingers on my left thumb, the nail corner bruised where I usually scratch when I get too anxious.

He takes off his glasses and presses the corners of his eyes. “You’ve been coming here for years, Eric. This would work much better if you’d commit.”

“I’m committed,” I rebuke, pulling back my incriminating hands.

“I’ve been committed to this treatment since I was thirteen.

There’s nothing I’d like better than to get rid of this, but since the beginning, every doctor has told me there’s no such thing as a cure.

” I exhale, long and loud. “I’m doing my best, okay?

I live with these fucking thoughts twenty-four-seven and somehow manage to keep a healthy, functional life.

One I’m thriving at, thank you very much.

You can ask my tutors. I don’t know what else you want from me. ”

Dr Cameron leans back in his chair and peers at me for a long moment.

“Giving in to your compulsions is not the answer. You know this, Eric. It’s nothing but a temporary fix that worsens the obsession cycles and your quality of life.

It may seem like you’re thriving, but at what cost?

” He intertwines his fingers on his lap.

“Fine. I get it. Can I get my bloody prescription now?”

He sighs and scribbles on the small white pad.

“Judging by the state of your hands and your increased irritability, I’d say your OCD is worse.

It means our current dosage is not working as it should.

” The sheet of paper detaches from the block with a ripping sound, and he hands it over to me. “Can we try this new dosage?”

“Does it look like I have a choice?” The wanker increased my meds. My first instinct is to crumple the paper and throw it at his face, but I’m too tired to argue. It’s either this or not taking them at all, which is not an option given my state.

Dr Cameron gets up and opens the door for me. “Same time next month?”

“Sure, why not?” I mutter.

When I return to the waiting room, you’re still in the same position, staring at nothing as if detached from your body.

The creaking door calls your attention and your mouth opens.

At the sight of my sullen face, however, you settle for a sympathetic smile.

The same recognition I gave Ms Hendriks. I didn’t expect to get it from you.

“Good luck there, Westcott.” I grin, returning the courtesy.

“Thanks. See you at school.”

“See ya.” I wave a hand and leave.

Until next month, I suppose. It’s always the same.