Page 12 of Under Pressure

I keep at bay the grin that wants to break free. “Well, too bad. That’s the place I’m most at peace.”

She considers it, tapping a thumb against her chin. “What’s relaxing about it?”

“The repetition. Your mind can’t drift off. It has to stay focused on what’s next.”

“And that’s not stressful?”

“It’s a break from everything else.”

“Well, to each their own.” She shrugs. “Okay, imagine you’re in a boxing ring…” Her face scrunches up in frustration. “All right, I’m out of my depth. Describe it to me.”

I close my eyes. “I’d be using the punching bag, not in the ring.”

“Okay,” she says easily.

“It’s just me and the bag, working on combos, hitting it over and over until everything else disappears.”

My words drift off, and when I open my eyes, she’s grinning at the monitor. “See.” She points excitedly. “Your muscle tension is the lowest it’s been since we’ve started. Weird that talking about something you tense your muscles for would make it lower, but whatever works.”

I actually do feel more relaxed. Huh.

“What boxing is for you,” she says, still looking at the screen, “that’s what biofeedback was for me. A lifeline when my mind was out of control. That and therapy.”

I sit up straighter in my chair. “You did therapy?”

“Mm-hmm.” There’s no shame in her voice. “I still have anxiety and flare-ups during stressful times but nothing like it used to be. Keeping on top of it helps. Kind of like preventative maintenance.”

“You don’t mind telling people you went to therapy?”

“Sometimes,” she admits. “There’s certainly a stigma surrounding it. But I figure another psych major can relate more than most.”

I nod noncommittally but stay silent. My mom put me in therapy in high school, but I refused to talk. Ironic now that it’s my major, but I’ve never been interested in talking about my feelings or becoming the kind of psychologist that says,And how does that make you feelwhile sitting in an overstuffed armchair. Personally, I don’t believe discussing your problems will solve them. Only doing something about them does. And there are some things you can’t do anything about. They’re out of your control. Like family.

My plan is to go into the research side of psychology. Where concrete facts and data rule, not emotions and feelings.

“So how was the biofeedback?” she asks, bringing my attention back to her. I glance down, trying to think of a way to word it.

“You liked it, didn’t you?” she teases.

I roll my eyes. “It wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be.”

“We could keep doing it every week if you’d like. It might help.”

“You think I need help? There’s something wrong with me?” It comes out more harshly than I intended, my mind still on that period years ago of my own therapy, and she flinches back.

“I—I didn’t mean—”

“No, sorry,” I mutter, pulling the electrodes off me. “We don’t need to do it again.”

“Okay,” she says in a small voice, shrinking in on herself.

Guilt courses through me immediately. See, this is why I don’t get close to girls. They’re too fragile, try to worm their way under your skin. Well, I’m not inviting her in, no matter how much she keeps knocking.

I undo the band around my chest and set it on the desk, then gather my things. “See you.”

She nods silently, eyes wide, and turns her back to me to put away the parts of the biofeedback machine.

Good, that’s how it should be. Little to no fraternization.

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