Page 71 of Space Oddities

“Just keep dealing with your issues instead of managing them, and I’m sure the need for situational anxiety meds will wane.” She searches my face, frowning at my expression. “What’s wrong? I thought you’d like the idea of not needing medication in the future.”

“No. It’s not that.” I straighten on the couch cushion. “It’s what you said about dealing and not managing things.”

“Oh.” She lowers her pen. “That.” Her eyes drop to the yellow notepad on her lap before she nods, as if agreeing with herself over something. “Ian, since meeting you and hearing about your life, it’s obvious you are extremely good at managing things, wouldn’t you say? Just consider all you’ve accomplished, even with your fear.”

I shift once more in my seat, feeling a sense of foreboding. “I guess…”

“Every success and milestone is something you should be proud of. I want you to understand that what I’m about to convey does nothing to diminish your achievements.”

Once again, she stares at me until I nod, though I have no idea what I’m agreeing to.

“However.” She pauses, as if weighing her words. “There’s a big difference between managing things and dealing with them.” She tucks her pen behind her ear, freeing her hands to gesture. “Take your claustrophobia, for instance. You arranged and managed things in your life so that you could still go into the field you wanted, even limited by your fears. You take walks after sitting in your cubicle too long, you arrange it so that doors remain open during meetings, and you decline any project that requires intensive travel.” She uncrosses and recrosses her legs, getting more comfortable as she continues to make me less so. “Even in your personal life you managed things. Remodeling a house to have as few doors or walls as possible, complete with large, unobstructed windows. Driving a sports car with the windows down. Eating outside when…” She catches my eye, blinking at whatever expression I’m making. “You seem upset by this. Can you tell me why?”

I think back on what Brenda said at the fundraiser. “Do you think… do I do this in other areas of my life too?” Though the question sounds hopeful, I’m pretty sure what the answer will be. Especially when her expression softens.

“You came to therapy because you had a tight deadline and a specific goal— a few weeks and a plane ride. In that time, I’ve tried my best to stay focused on your claustrophobia. However, wediddelve into your parents and your childhood so we could get a handle on where the fear of small spaces originated from. And I heard, and remember, everything you said.” She taps her notepad with her knuckle. “And I made notes of it in case you ever wanted to take our time together further.”

I know the answer, but I still need to hear it. “And?”

Dr. Brown gives me a tight-lipped smile. “You learned to manage things so well because you’ve had to do it for so long. And from what I can tell, you’re still doing it.”

I take a deep breath, trying to control the rising frustration. “But isn’t that what people do? Manage? I mean, what is the distinction between managing and dealing anyway?”

She nods a few times. “I apologize. You’re right, I’m not being clear.” She plops the notebook face down on the coffee table between us and holds up one hand, palm up. “When peoplemanagethings, they treat those things with care. They direct events, people, or things in the most efficient manner given the circumstances. Tomanageis to be a handler.” She raises her other hand. “When peopledealwith things, they act, theydosomething to enact change, they don’t work just within the problem’s parameters or limitations. Dealing with something can also be accepting things that cannot change. Managing is accepting things thatcanand should change.”

A heavy weight falls on me, like I’ve dived too deep beneath the surface and the pressure is holding me down. “So. I’m a coward.”

“No.” Dr. Brown’s voice is fast and sharp. “Not at all. And Iseriouslyapologize if I somehow gave you that impression.”

I can feel her eyes on me, but I can’t stop staring at my feet, replaying all my past decisions.

“Ian.” She waits until I finally break free from my trance, blinking up at her. She sighs at my expression. “You had averyunique upbringing. Given your father’s standing, your mother’s internal retreat, and the stress levels you were exposed to in your household while growing up, there was no other way for you to survive other than simply managing the situations you were given.” She pauses. “Why do you think your claustrophobia reared its head when you turned eighteen and left the house?”

“I thought it was the plane ride.”

“Yes, that was a catalyst, especially given you’d just outmaneuvered your father’s long-held plans. But I also believe it was a defense mechanism your brain put in place. You grew up solving problems, the problems of managing your parents’ expectations while trying to remain your own person. With those restrictions loosened by the distance you managed to put between yourself and your parents, your brain wanted to grasp the familiar. To still work within limitations. So the plane, the representation of all you were leaving behind, became a substitute. It allowed you to move forward in a familiar setting.”

I never understood the whole brain exploding emoji until now. I think Dr. Brown may have broken me. My eyes are downcast once more, and I glance at my watch. I need to pick up the pre-ordered takeout from all of Trish’s favorite spots and pick up the two extra-large chenille blankets from Walmart I’d purchased for in-store pick-up while sitting in Dr. Brown’s waiting room. More proof of me managing things, managing Trish, instead of dealing with our problems.

“You taking this step, meeting with me and dealing with your claustrophobia, proves that you’ve matured past that.”

I laugh, not kindly. “It wasn’t my idea. I didn’t evenwantto come.”

“But you did.” She seems so confident in my desire to change that I almost hate to break her of the opinion.

I force myself to meet her eye. “I only came here because it made Trish happy and got her to talk to me.” Leaning forward, I fist my hair in my hands. “Jesus, even when I’m dealing with something, it’s only because I’m trying to manage something else.”

“Trish?” Not even the well-practiced therapist can hide the interest in her voice.

“My girlfriend.” I squeeze my hair harder. “Actually, I don’t know what the hell she is anymore. I thought…” I flop back on the couch, eyes on the ceiling. “Basically, if it weren’t for Trish, I wouldn’t have come here. I would’ve convinced myself I didn’t really want the promotion, found a plausible excuse for my boss as to why I’d decline it, and gotten on with my life bymanagingthings.” I pinch above my nose, my recent happy memories of closet sex and pantry blow jobs now cast in shadow. “She’s even the one who got me through my exposure therapy homework.”

“I see.”

I bet she does. I bet she sees how inept the prince of a politically royal family is. How I skirted around things instead of tackling them head-on. Fuck. I still haven’t even asked Trish what she’s so set on running away from, being too concerned with the fact that she’s running away from me.

“Would you like to talk about her?” She picks her notepad back up from the table. “You’re my last patient of the day. I don’t mind making time.”

Dr. Brown’s face is carefully blank again, which is her way of trying not to influence my decision. But I know she wants me to talk. And I know I need to.

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