Cold Feet by Amy FitzHenry

something had arisen in me, the old familiar feeling of being summarily rejected for no reason. It drove a pit of fear and anxiety into the lining of my stomach. It made me wonder what I was doing to drive people away. This led me to do something I’d never thought I would do. I signed up for therapy.
    I attended for a grand total of three weeks. My therapist was named Dr. Majdi, a sexy Persian psychiatrist in Downtown Los Angeles who took my insurance and shouted at me while she posed meaningful hypotheticals that served only to confuse me.
    â€œSuppose my only
familial
relationship was with a person who wasn’t really capable of
being there
, who disappeared halfway through my
adolescence
. I would have an issue with
abandonment
,”she stressed during my second session. I wasn’t sure if she spoke this way because it was her general cadence, or because she was incredibly frustrated with me.
    â€œThat sounds awful. That happened to you?” I asked, genuinely concerned, sipping my water cup and relieved the attention was off me for a minute. I studied a bowl of Nature Valley granola bars she had set out on the coffee table. Did anyone actually eat those during therapy? They were so crumbly, that had to be a gigantic mess. There weren’t even any napkins. It was a disaster waiting to happen. Although I supposed you could use a tissue if you were really desperate. There were certainly plenty of those.
    â€œThis is an
example
, Emma. No, this did not happen to me. It happened to
you
. I am trying to explain why you always assume the
worst
, why you always think everyone around you will fail you, will let you down, will
leave
you. Why you are terrified of being, and yet convinced you will be,
left
.” As she spoke, she gestured wildly with her pen, but her carefully blown-out caramel-brown hair remained perfectly in place.
    â€œOh, right. Definitely. I completely agree.” I wanted Dr. Majdi to know how much I appreciated her opinion and what a good job she was doing. I also wanted to ask her what wrinkle cream she used. She looked ridiculously young for a shrink. She stared back at me, as if I wasn’t quite getting it. I suspected this was the case.
    â€œEmma, when children experience any sort of
trauma
they blame themselves, because children cannot see the experience through any other
perspective
. They are not old enough to understand that people have other motivations, which have nothing to do with
them
.”
    â€œThat makes a lot of sense.”
    Dr. Majdi stared at me and said, “Do you understand how this may relate to
you
?”
    I bit my lip, stumped.
    I wasn’t trying to be difficult. I was genuinely there because I wanted to feel better. I wanted to stop obsessing about how I’d lost my friend, about what was wrong with me. I’d given Dr. Majdi the entire backstory when I arrived. I told her that I’d never met my dad, that my mom and I were practically strangers, and that despite my relationship with Sam, I was convinced I would end up alone. I explained with clinical detachment that whenever something good happened, I was basically waiting for it to be taken away.
    Dr. Majdi looked concerned and even a little disappointed as I shared my background with her. I was pretty sure her reaction had something to do with my casual tone when I explained the situation, as if I were telling a story that had happened to someone else. As if I were reporting what had happened in the most recent season of
Game of Thrones
to someone who hadn’t watched it. Not that I would hang out with an individual with such poor judgment.
    In any case, I told her everything. I was honest. When she asked questions, or asked for examples of memories, I offered them up. In our second session, I told her about the time I was in a school play that was going to be performed on Father’s Day. My teacher told our class that our dads would get to sit in the front row.
    â€œDo you