Page 17 of Follow My Voice
Has he counted? I don’t remember how many times I sent him lines from different poems, stories, and books I like.
Me:So you’re curious as to why I quoted a famous poet?
Kang:No, because you’ve sent quotes from a lot of my favorite books.
Me:So I’ve piqued your curiosity through literature?
Kang:You could say that.
Me:Seems a bit cliché.
Kang:Why can’t I be cliché?
Me:You can be anything you want to be.
That’s the big difference between him and me: He has a bright future ahead of him. I, on the other hand, have limited horizons.
Kang:I owe you one, K.
Me:Why?
Kang:The chamomile worked.
Me:Oh, I’m glad.
Kang:Think I’ll be able to sleep now :) Talk tomorrow?
Me:Okay, good night, Kang.
I feel a strange sensation in my stomach as I type his name.
Kang:Good night.
I put my phone down, but another message comes in.
Kang:And you can be anything you want to be, too, K. Talk tomorrow.
I lay in bed, a big grin on my face. I spend the next few minutes going through our conversation, wishing it could’ve gone on a while longer. As I read through our texts, I try not to think about one of the main things causing me to stress about community college—something I haven’t allowed myself to voice inwardly or outwardly: I’ll be attending Durham Community College—the same college Kang goes to.
10Heal Me
MY THERAPIST’S OFFICEis the most colorful room I have ever been in. There are pictures of rainbows and multicolored landscapes, and the walls are painted in two different shades of blue. I don’t know if it’s supposed to be therapeutic, but it works for me. I also really like the paintings he has displayed, which were done using a unique layering process. This office is familiar to me and has become another safe space.
Dr. Brant, or Dr. B., as he likes to be called, is a tall, white-haired, balding man with round glasses and an almost permanent reassuring smile. “Klara,” he says, bowing jokingly to greet me.
I have paraded through a lot of therapists’ offices for close to two years, ever since my mother died, but Dr. B. is my favorite by far and has been my therapist for the past eight months. He makes me feel like I’m not a patient, just someone talking to a friend. He’s helped me out so much, and has managed to take my agoraphobia from severe to almost moderate.
“Dr. B.,” I say, returning the bow. We sit with his desk between us, facing each other.
“You’re looking well, Klara. I’m glad.”
“Yes, and I came here alone today.”
Agoraphobia has robbed me of so many things, mainly my independence. The constant fear of what might happen to me if I go out alone has limited me greatly. Getting to this point has been a gradual process, another part of my exposure therapy. And since I’ll be attending an in-person class in two weeks, I decided to come here by myself, push myself further. Even if this office is a safe space for me, getting in an Uber and sitting inside a car with an unfamiliar driver is not, and that part was terrifying. Coming to my appointment on my own feels like a huge victory.
“That’s incredible.” He gives me a thumbs-up. “And you’re eating better, too, I can tell; that’s important when you’re on medication.”
I nod. “I know.”
