On Dublin Street (On Dublin Street 1)

Why did all therapists speak in that soft, ‘soothing’ voice? It was supposed to be soothing, but it sounded just as condescending to me now as it had when I was fifteen. I glanced around at her large office on North St. Andrews Lane. It was surprisingly cold and modern—nothing like the cozy clutter of the therapist I’d been sent to in high school. Plus, the high school therapy was free. This suede and glass chick was costing me a small fortune.

“You need flowers or something,” I observed. “A bit of color. Your office isn’t very welcoming.”

She grinned at me. “Noted.”

I didn’t say anything.

“Jocelyn-”

“Joss.”

“Joss. Why are you here?”

I felt my stomach flip and the cold sweats start and I rushed to remind myself that anything I said to her was private. I’d never see her outside this office, and she’d never use my past, my issues, against me or to get to know me personally. I drew a deep breath. “I’ve started having panic attacks again.”

“Again?”

“I used to have them a lot when I was fourteen.”

“Well panic attacks are brought on by all kinds of anxiety. Why then? What was going on in your life?”

I swallowed past the brick in my throat. “My parents and little sister were killed in a car accident. I have no other family – except an uncle who didn’t give a shit – and I spent the rest of my teen years in foster care.”

Dr. Pritchard had been scribbling as I talked. She stopped and looked directly into my eyes. “I’m very sorry for your loss, Joss.”

I felt my shoulders relax at her sincerity and I nodded in acknowledgment of it.

“After they died, you started having panic attacks. Can you tell me your symptoms?”

I told her and she nodded along with them.

“Is there a trigger? At least, are you aware of one?”

“I don’t allow myself to think about them a lot. My family I mean. Memories of them, actual real, solid memories not just vague impressions… the memories trigger the attacks.”

“But they stopped?”

I curled my lip. “I got really good at not thinking about them.”

Dr. Pritchard lifted an eyebrow. “For eight years?”

I shrugged. “I can look at pictures, I can have a thought about them, but I carefully avoid actual memories of us together.”

“But your panic attacks have started up again?”

“I let my guard down. I let the memories in—took a panic attack at the gym and then at a friend’s family dinner.”

“What were you thinking about at the gym?”

I shifted uneasily. “I’m a writer. Well, trying to be. I started thinking about my mom’s story. It’s a good story. Sad. But I think people would like her. Anyway, I had a memory – a few actually – of my parents, and their relationship. They had a good relationship. Next thing I know some guy is helping me off the treadmill.”

“And the family dinner? Was that the first family dinner you’ve been to since being in foster care?”

“We never really had family dinners in foster care.” I smiled humorlessly.

“So this was your first family dinner since losing yours?”

“Yeah.”

“So that triggered a memory too?”

“Yeah.”

“Has there been any big changes in your life recently, Joss?”

I thought about Ellie and Braden and our coffee morning a week ago. “I moved. New apartment, new roommate.”

“Anything else?”

“My old roommate, my best friend, Rhian, she moved to London and her and her boyfriend just got engaged. But that’s about all.”

“Were Rhian and you close?”

I shrugged. “As close as I allow anyone to get.”

She smiled at me, a sad pressing of her lips. “Well that sentence said a lot. What about your new flatmate then? Are you allowing yourself to get close to her or him?”

“Her.” I thought about it. I suppose I had let Ellie in more than I’d intended to. And I cared about her more than I thought I would. “Ellie. We’ve become fast friends. I wasn’t expecting that. Ellie’s friends are cool, and her brother and their crowd hang around a lot. I guess my life is more social now.”

“Was it Ellie and her brother’s family dinner you had a panic attack at?”

“Yeah.”

Dr. Pritchard nodded and scribbled something else down.

“Well?” I asked.

She smiled at me. “Are you looking for a diagnosis?”

I raised my brow at her.

“Sorry to disappoint, Joss, but we’ve barely scratched the surface.”

“You think these changes have something to do with it though right? I want the panic attacks to stop.”

“Joss, you’ve been in my office fifteen minutes and I can already tell you that these panic attacks aren’t going to stop any time soon…unless you start dealing with your family’s death.”

What? Well, that was just stupid. “I have dealt with it.”

“Look, you were smart enough to know that you have a problem and that you need to talk to someone about that problem, so you’re smart enough to realize that burying memories of your family is not a healthy way to deal with their death. Changes to daily life, new people, new emotions, new expectations, can trigger past events. Especially if they haven’t been dealt with. Spending time with a family after years of not having one of your own has broken through whatever wall you’ve put up around your family’s death. I think it’s possible you might be suffering from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, and that’s not something to ignore.”