Page 44 of Catch Me
I push out a heavy breath and tell her that I started to feel panic as soon as I started to walk away from Andreas.
“What if I’m making a mistake catching feelings for someone like him? Dr. King, you more than anyone know about my aversion to attention these days, and he’s in the middle of filming a major motion picture. His life is the spotlight.”
“I see now,” she replies. “This new, budding relationship is bringing up your fears of being overwhelmed?”
“Yes. I mean, not that we can call it a relationship,” I say. “It’s new.” But even as I say that, the look in Andreas’ eyes comes back to mind and my pulse quickens. I want him to continue looking at me like that.
And that scares me the most.
“Every time I’ve gotten close to something I want, like really wanted, I’ve lost it,” I say. “My magazine collection, my fashion design degree …” I push out a harsh breath. Whenever I’ve pursued my own passions, I’d get close only for it to be stomped out.
“And what about your new job? That’s still going well,” Dr. King points out.
I think back to the moment Rebecca came close to firing me. “I’m still in my trial period,” I reply. “It’s not a sure thing.”
“Nothing’s a sure thing, Ivy,” Dr. King replies. “But that doesn’t mean they’re not worth going after.”
I don’t say anything in response. All I can do is nod as I try to let her words sink in.
“Have you had any panic attacks lately? Since the last time we spoke?”
It’s been almost two months since I’ve had a session with Dr. King. Between the fire, starting my new job, and settling into my new life in L.A. I just haven’t made the time.
“I had one the day after Ms. Baldwin died.”
Ms. Shelby meows, requesting for more belly rubs.
“What about your routines? Do you think they’re helping?” Dr. King asks a little later.
She’s never forced the issue of medication for my panic attacks. Initially, after what happened at my graduation ceremony and my short stint in the hospital, I was on meds. But after a year or so, under her care, I was weaned off of them.
“Let’s schedule an appointment for four weeks from today,” she suggests at the end of our session.
Dr. King reminds me to continue with the morning routine and journaling notebook that’s helped when my mind starts to become overloaded or weighed down by my worries.
Once I disconnect the call with Dr. King, I’m feeling much lighter. It’s a reminder that sometimes speaking my worries out loud, instead of keeping them in my head, helps them lose their power over me.
That’s not always the case when it comes to my panic disorder, but regular sessions with my therapist, journaling, and healthy routines go a long way to decreasing the amount of panic attacks that occur.
I look over at the magazine I’ve barely touched and excitement courses through me. I decide to take my magazine to a local coffee shop to sit, read, and do some journaling. Mya’s over at Jason’s for the rest of the weekend, probably, so it’s just me today.
Fifteen minutes later I enter the café and order a green smoothie instead of something with caffeine in it. I find a cozy high back chair in the corner reading section of the café and pull out my magazine. I’ll never get over how stunning this cover is. I wonder how revolutionary this and covers like these must’ve been for Black women in the 1960s.
I read some of the articles in the magazine, to gain a sense of what was going on during the time period and try to reflect on how the fashion trends speak to it.
Before I know it, I pull out my sketch pad and sketch a design of a look I would put together if I were designing a costume for a film or show set in the 60s.
That thought has me packing up and heading to another local consignment store that’s not too far from my apartment.
This store is bigger than the one I went to the day before. There’s an array of pieces I could imagine buying for a movie or series.
“Come out, Mom. Let me see it!” a woman behind me, by the fitting room, calls out while I’m looking at the belts.
“It’s terrible. I’m not coming out,” her mother yells back from behind one of the fitting room doors.
“I’ll be the judge of that. Get out here.”
A beat passes before the wooden door creeps open and an older Black woman, who looks to be in her fifties, comes out. Her head is down and her shoulders are slouched as she inches toward her daughter.
