Anxious Minds Alike
By Emmy-Lou Norton
My mother always called me her little worrywart as a child. I would cling to her legs around strangers and distant relatives. I always preferred to play on my own rather than with my classmates. This was a cause for concern from the get-go and I never knew how to feel about it - I never knew it was a problem until I was told so. I just never knew what to say or how to act around other people. Being left to my own devices has always felt right. It was the only time in my life that I felt I didn’t need to put on a performance or pretend to be someone else. Someone more interesting.
This has followed me into my adult life, and I am still not convinced that it’s a problem.
Sure, I live by myself. Sure, I work from home. Sure, my closest friend is my neighbour Beverly who is 65 years old and is as much of a hermit as I am, which is exactly what us introverts want out of life. A friendship that doesn’t require phone calls every evening to catch one another up on the mundane everyday details or a friendship that requires future plans to always be in the works. Sometimes a smile and a nod while we cross paths as I get my mail and she’s walking her groceries into her apartment with the exchange “Want to have a cuppa sometime this week?” is enough.
I maintain my stance on not thinking my introversion is a problem, but I am often trying to be persuaded otherwise. This particular day was no different.
I sit at my dining table on a dreary looking day, I hold my book club’s ‘book of the month’ in my hands and stare through the gap in my sheet curtains. The curtains remain shut except for the slit where they meet in the middle of the window, but the warm hue of the scarlet drapes mixed with the sun trying to melt through the fortress of snow outside casts a warm colouring over my apartment. It’s nice. It makes me think of my childhood bedroom and the red duvet cover my mother would tuck me into as a kid. My mind begins to wander as I hear the hiss of my kettle on the stove. I place my book down on the dining table and meander to my kitchen bench with the already prepared mug and teabag. The boiling water hits the porcelain and I watch the clear water darken. I dip the bag slowly in and out of the water when I hear a knock at my door. This startles me. I wasn’t expecting guests, I wasn’t prepared for guests so why on earth is someone knocking at my door?
“David, it’s Beverly. I figured you would be home and we could have that cuppa now,” Beverly sang out.
“Oh, uh,” I stuttered in response. I look around at the state of my apartment. A dirty dish in the sink, the pillows askew on my couch and I can see dirty clothes peeking out from my bedroom floor.
“Did we have plans today, Beverly?” I call through the door.
“If you already have plans today, David, then I understand. I thought a surprise little pop-in could be nice. I’ve been baking all morning,” she responds, her voice rising to make it through the door.
I straighten my shirt, run my hand through my hair and unlock my front door. Beverly is standing in front of me, 5 foot nothing with a beaming smile and holding a plate of brownies. Her wispy grey hair falls out of the messy top knot on top of her head, and she tries to tuck them behind her ears as she steps forward.
“Sorry to come over unannounced but I figured, what’s better than the present?” She smiles.
“That’s okay, Beverly. I’m sorry for the state of the apartment, I haven’t felt like tidying up much.” Beverly looks around at my apartment and I feel my self-consciousness take over and my cheeks flush red.
“What are you going on about? Your apartment looks perfect as always.” She sets the tray of brownies on the table and pulls herself out a chair.
I like Beverly. She doesn’t take life too seriously and she is a breath of fresh air to spend time with. Beverly is a widow who lost her husband about 4 years ago which is when she ended up moving into the apartment building and into her beautiful little one bedroom, ‘hippy bungalow’ as she describes it. She has tapestries with vibrant patterns for curtains and her million and one plants scatter the floor, walls, and bookshelves. Her bookshelves are enclosed with stories that are full to the brim of adventure, DIY how-to’s and books that tell you how to keep certain plants alive - her favourite being the Little Black Book of Mary-Jane. Once when I was visiting her, I picked it up and began to read the blurb.
“If you’re lucky, I’ll let you borrow that, and we can have a real party,” she said with a wink. It was in this moment that I knew Beverly was going to leave a lasting impression on me, she was going to become someone who I didn’t need to perform in front of. It was refreshing to see someone be so unapologetically themselves.
Beverly sits at my dining table, and I pull a second mug out from my top shelf.
“You’re lucky, I just boiled the jug.” I tell her and dip a teabag into her mug.
“Well you know me; I always consider myself lucky.” She takes a bite from a brownie.
“Is this brownie safe to eat?” I ask and set her mug in front of her.
“This wouldn’t be my third brownie today if it wasn’t safe.” We both laugh at her honesty. This is another thing I admire about Beverly, her large abundance to taste, feel, smell and love everything she encounters.
“So, how have you been?”
“Oh, you know, I’ve been fine.” I stretch the truth.
“Hm, how is working from home going?” She queries me.
“Nothing exciting to report. It’s the same as the office.” I stretch the truth, again.
“You know if I had a dollar for every time you lied to me, I would be a millionaire.” She sips her tea.
“I would never lie to you, Beverly.” I match her and take a sip, also.
“Perhaps you wouldn’t lie, but you wouldn’t be honest either.” Her emerald eyes are lined with a metallic purple smudge that pierce through me.
“What do you want me to say, Beverly? I’m doing fine.”
“Fine isn’t good. You’re wasting time, sitting in this perfectly manicured little flat of yours.” She takes another bite of brownie and points it at me.
“You could really do with some of my fun brownies, Davie. These just aren’t cutting it.” She laughs and I try to smile at her.
“Is this why you’ve made an impromptu visit? You want me to get high with you, again? You know that stuff isn’t any good for me. It makes everything way worse,” I say to her.
“Oh I know, it isn’t for everyone. But that’s a shame, because my anxiety became much more manageable when I stumbled onto the Little Black Book.” She chuckles at me again.
“I don’t have anxiety,” I tell her.
“Please don’t fool yourself. I don’t know what your last therapist told you, but you absolutely have some of the ‘xiety, my friend.”
I’m becoming slightly agitated with her, even though she may be right. We sit in a comfortable silence. Bite and sip, bite and sip. Clink of the mug hitting the table over and over.
I stare out of the window and notice the sleet that is making its way onto the road below. Children play in the park over the road, some are picking up sloppy handfuls of snow from the ground, quickly throwing them before they can melt. I watch the pedestrians cross the roads. A father holds his daughter’s hand as they look both ways at the traffic lights and walk from one side to the other. Pet owners walk their dogs and smile as they walk past other people.
A timber truck is sandwiched between two cars, and I imagine the truck failing to break in time on the icy roads at the intersection. The large tires slide along the road as the friction between tread and tar is bogged in snow and drives up the sidewalk. What if I had been taking a walk? What if Beverly hadn’t come over and I had gone for a walk to clear my mind and I was on the sidewalk just now, with the timber truck beside me and then on top of me?
My phone has a secure passcode that obviously no one else but me knows. What if a passerby witnessed the incident, ran over, and tried to claw my phone from my pocket and call my parents? But they can’t because they don’t know my passcode. But surely the hospital would be able to contact my parents through the name on my license, but what if they rang and my parents weren’t home? Or they hear the phone ring and decide to not answer it, just this one time. They’re too tired from the day and don’t feel like talking, so it goes to voicemail while I’m laying half dead on the pavement while a stranger digs through my pockets?
“Ahem.” Beverly clears her throat, to gain my attention back. She’s been watching me as my mind wandered.
I take a deep breath and smile at her.
“Sorry, I was just day dreaming,” I tell her.
“You went somewhere else entirely just then, Davie.” She says this in a calm tone now. Steadily, quietly. She watches me still. She watches me with her head slightly tilted and a soft smile. It’s as if she’s trying to see into my mind from a different angle, she’s trying to read me in a different light.
“You know, I used to meet with other anxious minds. I think you could benefit from being around some other weirdos,” she tells me.
“I always appreciate the sensitivity.” I roll my eyes.
“Ha! You know I mean well. We’re all weirdos, at the end of the day. Some are just better at hiding it… or embracing it.” She winks again. There she goes again, always embracing life.
“I don’t know about all that. What am I going to gain from meeting other people like me?”
“It’s all about perspective,” Beverly tells me.
I chew the inside of my cheek and my leg bounces beneath the table. Beverly can sense this, so she assures me and puts her hand on my jittering limb.
“Just trust me with this one, okay? If you don’t like it, then you don’t have to go back. Just give it one chance.”
I think about it and look at her, trying to understand where she’s coming from. She has been incredibly open with me about her husband and how they met. It’s one of her favourite stories to tell. She was travelling through Berlin on a guided tour through the city. Beverly, in her typical fashion wandered off and got lost. Before she realised that the group had walked away, Gareth walked up to her and asked for directions.
“That accent sounds familiar,” Beverly said, not taking her eyes off Gareth.
Gareth looked up from his map and to her, in surprise.
“It absolutely is.” He smiled at her.
Beverly and Gareth wandered through the city on their own for the rest of the afternoon. They stopped into cafes for a sweet treat or browsed through the little stores that lined the streets. They walked through the free museums and laughed at the little German that they collectively knew. At the end of the day Gareth walked Beverly back to her hostel. Beverly told Gareth that she didn’t want to say goodbye just yet. Gareth kissed the top of her hand and told her that he would be there the next morning, for another day of sight-seeing.
Beverly says that she was sceptical that he would return, that maybe she should have let it be that one perfect day without any other expectations but there he was the next morning, bright and early at 8:00am, waiting for Beverly with a travel cup of tea in each hand for the both of them.
Beverly retells this story every now and then to me and each time with the same amount of love in her eyes as the first. Sometimes there is a sheen that covers her eyes and some gentle dabs to her tear ducts as she talks and sometimes there is more laughter as she reminisces over the way Gareth would pronounce a word in German.
I love hearing these stories of Beverly and Gareth’s, so much so that I feel like I knew Gareth. But the truth is that when Beverly first moved into the apartment building, there was no colourful artwork or life in her apartment. There was no colour or life left in her, so I believe her. I believe her when she says that she can help me because I know that something must have helped her.
“Okay. I’ll do it.” I tell her.
Beverly claps her hands together in excitement.
The next morning Beverly promptly knocks on my door at 11:00am. I am reluctant to open the door, but I know she is counting on me. I look back at my apartment and check that my stove is off, my television is off, and the candle lit the night before is put out. I do this again. Beverly knocks at my door once more and I shout a hurried “I’m coming!” through the timber. I can sense her growing impatient, so I pick up my keys, phone and wallet and place them in my pockets. I check these items in my pockets twice again, making sure I haven’t forgotten anything. I take my coat from the back of my dining chair and open the door.
“There you are! Finally, let’s head off.” Beverly lifts her elbow towards me and gestures for me to take it while we walk. This makes me smile and I offer her mine instead. She accepts the invitation, and we begin walking.
Beverly tries to keep my mind busy as we walk down the street. She asks me questions, points things out or asks me if I’ve tried the coffee at a café we walk past.
“No, I haven’t tried this place yet. It looks nice,” I say. I watch the people inside the café now, people chatting with one another or typing away furiously at their laptop. Some people read the newspaper or are talking on the phone. They all look happy and content, not a single worry to be had. Beverly untucks her arm from mine as we approach a questionable looking laneway. I slow my pace as she leads me up to a large wooden door. She knocks on the door for me, and we wait.
“Is this it?” I ask her, puzzled.
“It sure is. It doesn’t look like much, but just keep on trusting me. Okay?”
After a few seconds the door creaks open and all we can see is darkness until an extremely tall man with a blading scalp wearing all black seems to appear from nowhere. I’m taken aback by this and step backwards, my heart beginning to race. Beverly takes hold of my arm and pulls me forward again. This man takes a step forward and further into the light and beams at Beverly. His large, white teeth flash us and he takes Beverly into his arms.
“Beverly Williams, in the flesh! Oh my, how long has it been? We miss you,” he bellows at her.
Beverly blushes as she turns to introduce me.
“Oh Greg, you’re too sweet. Please, this is my dear friend David.”
Greg shakes my hand in what I can only describe as the strongest, and most confident handshake I’ve received in my life. Again, he smiles, and his teeth seem to take over most of his face.
“David, it is a pleasure to meet you. Any friend of Beverly’s is a friend of mine. Please, come inside.”
Greg opens the door wide for me to walk through and I say goodbye to Beverly.
“I’ll be here when you’re finished. Trust me.” She winks and just like that, I’m enclosed in a small coat closet.
“David, please leave your coat on the rack and head downstairs.” Greg gestures down a set of stairs that again, descend into a black nothingness. I wonder how on earth Beverly has convinced me into this bizarre situation, but then again, I’m not surprised at all. ‘Trust me,’ I hear her say throughout my racing thoughts and I take my first step down the stairs.
The stairs that I was convinced were luring me into Wonderland eventually lighten up as we enter a small basement with a circle of black fold-out chairs and people sitting patiently. Some are chatting amongst themselves, and some are staring straight ahead, waiting.
Greg pulls an extra chair out for himself from a small closet and slots himself between two people at the front of the room. My eyes follow the circle around the room until I saw one empty chair.
“Please, David, feel free to take a seat,” Greg calls and gestures a hand to the empty chair.
I follow his direction and sit down.
Shit, shit, shit. I’m the last person here. They must have all been waiting for me. God damnit, why didn’t we leave earlier? Beverly said we would make it on time. We should have gotten here earlier; I think to myself. The people beside my chair, both an older man and woman smile at me kindly as I sit between them. I smile back at them and quickly sit down.
I take a moment between my panic to observe everyone in the circle.
I can tell the anxious people in the room in a matter of seconds. A restless leg, picked and prodded fingertips, cracked lips that haven’t seen hydration in several days, deep and hollow contours that dive into eye sockets, twitching hands and fidgeting fingers, hives on the neck that swing down and into the chest and arms or a stutter that comes out of nowhere in conversation. I know this, because this is me, and so far, everyone in this room exhibits the same behaviour in one way or another.
“Hello, everyone! Thank you for being here today. I’m Dr. Paulson, but I would prefer for you to call me Greg.” He smiles again and stares at everyone for a little too long. Some people smile and nod at him, but we all wait for further instruction. He continues to stare, and some people rearrange their posture in the chair. Crossing and uncrossing their legs, wrapping their arms around themselves. After a few uncomfortable seconds, someone speaks.
“Well, are we going to start doing anything?” A man says.
“What do you mean?” Greg responds, smiling far too wide. His teeth, far too big for his head.
“Erh, well... What are we doing here?” He questions Greg once again.
“You tell me.” Too much smiling, too much silence.
This man looks uncomfortable. He looks at the others in the room, but we’re just as confused as he is, not being able to offer anything else.
“Um, a friend of mine recommended for me to come here. She said you could help me. She says my anxiety is taking over my life.” He stammers as beads of sweat collect over his hairline.
The tension in the room feels slightly lighter, as everyone in the room nod their heads in solidarity. Some people give this man a welcoming smile as we hear a loud crack of laughter coming from the front of the room. We all turn our heads in confusion now to see Greg throwing his head back in laughter. His giant white teeth have nowhere to hide as his amusement echoes throughout the entire room.
We stare, confused. Another person speaks up.
“My psychologist said I should come to this meeting. He said I could learn something from your… teachings?” His speech slows as he squints at Greg to make sure he is seeing what we’re all seeing. Greg’s hysterical laughter hits our eardrums with a loud crack once more, he’s slapping his knee now. This person’s cheeks flush red and their jittering knee has turned into a squelching bounce as their sneakers fidget against the linoleum floor.
More silence while we wait for Greg to pull himself together and while we all question whether there’s a doctor or a madman sitting in front of us.
The same man speaks again.
“Are we all here on some type of recommendation from someone else?” Everyone nods and Greg holds a hand to his mouth, as if now seeming shy from his chuckling.
“I’ve been too worried to leave my house for the past few months because I witnessed a car accident. No one was seriously hurt but ever since, I’m almost convinced that the same thing will happen to me. I’ll just be walking along the sidewalk and bam, a car will plough through me,” the woman beside me admits.
“Hey! I had the same thought the other day.” I turn to her in disbelief.
“Really?!” She seems just as astonished as I am.
The volume of Greg’s laughter has increased yet again, but we don’t seem to hear him.
I hadn’t noticed how dry my mouth was until this moment of connection that I was having with this stranger. I would typically sit and listen to others speak, but this familiar sounding thought brought something out in me, and probably this bizarre situation we have found ourselves in. I can feel the warmth creep through my cheeks and down my neck and I pull the collar of my shirt up in hope to disguise this.
“Yes! The snow and the roads stress me out. I was watching a timber truck drive down the road in my apartment and thought about the truck spinning out of control at the intersection and into the pedestrians. I wasn’t even near the truck, but my mind instantly went into ‘what if that was me?’ I feel my shoulders bouncing as I am retelling this story and hear my own laughter. My cheeks rise as the sound of my laughter increases and surprises me. The woman holds a hand to her mouth, and she softly laughs at the noticeable ridiculousness of the story. I throw my head back this time and let the laughter take over my body.
“I saw on the news that there was a satellite missing in space. I was sitting in my living room and thought ‘what if it hits me?’” Someone else admits, a smile forming on her lips.
“My boss told me he wanted to have a chat the other day and I started to form a plan of how I would survive and feed my family after getting fired. He promoted me.” Another man laughs.
“I have a freckle appearing on my hand and I’ve already scheduled an appointment with an oncologist.” A woman claps her hands together and howls in laughter.
Everyone in the room is laughing now. I don’t think anyone even knows why they’re laughing, but they still do. Loud laughter, small laughter, giggles, or chuckling is all that the previously tense and worrisome room was filled with.
Once everyone has calmed down, some are still wiping tears from their eyes when the first man reiterates to Greg “So what was the point of this meeting, anyway? Some sort of exposure therapy for the irrationally anxious?”
Greg shrugs his shoulders and yet again, smiles much too widely. “Something like that.”
Once everyone has calmed down Greg explains some of his practices as a psychologist and says that most of his patients recalled a significant relief in stress and anxiety when they experienced more laughter in their everyday life. He began to explore laughter therapy and subtly implemented this practice with patients and knew that was the road he was supposed to go down as a psych. He also recalled that most patients said that they would never have come to a therapy session like this if they had known beforehand what it would entail, so he likes for the recommendations to come with a slightly anonymous touch. Everyone nods their heads in agreement, still laughing.
We finish the session and make our way back up the stairs and into the brisk afternoon wind. I’m putting my arms through my coat and notice the smile on my face. I can’t seem to remember the last time a smile stayed put on my face. I felt lighter, like I could manage the weight of the world on my shoulders today. Beverly stands from a park bench and walks over to me, and I can tell that she knows exactly what happened. I shake my head at her and laugh again. She grabs my elbow and threads her arm through, and we begin walking. She lifts her head up to see me and says, “Feels good to forget about what our brains are telling us and laugh for a moment, doesn’t it?”