Pete pulled into the parking lot of the psychiatrist’s office just as the sun had set. It had been one week since he had confessed to Natalie.

  “I don’t like the idea of coming home in the dark,” he thought.

  He had been nervous all day thinking about the appointment. So much so that he had left the apartment early and driven aimlessly just to calm down. Frustrated once again that the feeling of being watched had returned.

  “Great,” he quipped. “First appointment, and we get to add this to my collection of crazy.”

  He stepped out of the car and walked toward the building.

  There was a sign reading, “use doorbell please”. He pressed it, and a moment later, a woman with short grey hair, dressed in jeans and a Led Zeppelin T-shirt, came to let him inside.

  “Hi there,” she said in a short, businesslike voice. “You’re Pete?”

  “Yep, hi,” he replied, stepping inside and promptly following her down a short hallway.

  The woman walked with brisk steps and strong posture. Probably in her late fifties or early sixties, from what Pete could tell, though she had a powerful energy. There was no doubt about that. She invited him into an office at the end of the hall. “I’m Dr. Flanagan,” she said. “It’s nice to meet you. Please, make yourself comfortable.”

  There wasn’t an overly warm way about her. Her words were short and precise, no wasted communication. To Pete, it was different than what he’d expected. He assumed there would be a more motherly, nurturing quality, but Dr. Flanagan was not that.

  The office looked much like a living room. There was a desk, a couple of small chairs. Plants and paintings on the walls. It seemed a comfortable space.

  “Is this okay?” Pete gestured to a small couch behind a coffee table.

  “Yep, that's great,” Dr. Flanagan responded quickly. “Would you like a drink?” She pointed to a small refrigerator in the corner.

  “No. I’m fine. Thanks.” Pete sat down.

  Dr. Flanagan took a chair opposite him.

  “So,” she began, “tell me why you’re here tonight.”

  Pete cleared his throat. “Well,” he stammered, “I’ve been thinking about some pretty weird stuff, and I can’t seem to stop.” He forced a laugh, hoping to, at the very least, get “credit” for acknowledging that none of this would qualify as “normal”.

  “Okay. Well, what kinds of things are you thinking about?” she asked.

  “It’s kind of hard to describe,” Pete went on, “but it’s mostly about strange… huge things, like existence and reality, maybe my place in it.”

  He faked a cough, then adding. “And some violent thoughts too. But –” He quickly clarified, “I don’t want to do anything violent. I just can’t stop picturing harmful stuff.”

  Dr. Flanagan’s eyebrows lifted. “Well, those can be pretty scary things to think about.” She opened a notebook on her lap. “Why don’t we start with the universe sized concerns. What about reality is making you uncomfortable?”

  She sounded interested at this point, which lit a flicker of hope. “Ok,” Pete thought. “Let’s go.”

  He told her everything he could. Making sure to leave out no details, no matter how bizarre. He talked about the day at the gun range, the Vicodin, even the near psychosis of those first moments in the apartment (which he was still having trouble accepting had actually happened)

  He hoped that once he was done, he could simply sit back and allow the expert in the room to “fix” him.

  Dr. Flanagan jotted things down as he spoke, apparently unfazed by his descriptions. “Have there been any physical effects from this anxiety that you’ve been feeling? Stomach aches, lack of sleep, that sort of thing?”

  Pete was stunned that she’d anticipated this. “Wow. Yes!” he answered, excited.

  “Whenever it gets bad, I get sick in the bathroom. Actually, sometimes I think, if I could just stop my stomach from hurting, I’d be able to get through the mental stuff. It’s just that when it starts to hurt, it makes me panic even more.”

  “Have you lost weight?” The doctor asked. “Do you check your weight?”

  …

  Tears.

  Immediate.

  Pete had told Natalie about his thoughts; he had even admitted to Cynthia some of his psychological issues. Still, he had never told anyone about how hard it had been on him physically. It was too sad. Too unnerving.

  “I’ve lost fifteen pounds in less than a month.”

  There was enough strength left in him to keep from sobbing outright, but only just. And reaching for a tissue, he accidentally knocked the entire box off the table. It landed softly on the carpet, followed a heartbeat later, by more tears.

  “For fuck’s sake! Am I going to cry every time I talk to someone about this stuff?” He wondered, frustrated.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  But then something strange happened.

  Dr. Flanagan, surprisingly, softened her demeanor. “Oh, honey,” she said, and without thinking, leaned across the table, placing her hand on his back.

  It was a complete breach in session etiquette. Something she had never done before. For a moment, it alarmed her, though she promised she would simply compartmentalize the response and go over it later, alone.

  “Why did I do that?” She pondered, briefly.

  But despite her professional miscue, and his emotional embarrassment, that moment of compassion did manage to take tension out of the room. “Thank you,” Pete said.

  “Of course.” Dr. Flanagan sat back in her chair. “You know, there’s an old saying I’ve shared with patients over the years. Something I like to remember whenever I’m feeling overwhelmed.”

  Pete wiped the tears from his cheek.

  “It comes from a woman named ‘Lady Julian’.” The doctor continued. “You’ve probably never heard of her. She lived a long time ago. But, when she was young, she had a near-death experience, and it completely transformed her life. She gave a famous quote, later on in her writing, and it goes like this;”

  ‘All shall be well. All shall be well. All manner of things shall be well.’

  Dr. Flanagan smiled warmly.

  “All shall be well, huh?” Pete echoed, also smiling. “I like that.”

  “And It can be,” The doctor assured. “Listen, I can give you tips and teach you techniques to help manage your physical symptoms. I’m also going to write you a prescription. We’ll try an SSRI along with an anti-anxiety medication.”

  “A lot of what you’re experiencing relates to obsessive thinking, and antidepressants can often help with that. It’s important that you understand that all your disturbing thoughts, even the violent ones, are symptoms of obsessive mental patterns, and they can be treated.”

  “Okay,” Pete exhaled.

  “And if you have time,” she added, “I’d also like you to try something else for me.”

  She walked over to a small bookshelf on the far wall. “You’re clearly a smart guy, and you might be relieved to learn that some other pretty smart people have faced similar thoughts and doubts.”

  “We sometimes call it an existential crisis, and it’s often associated with people of high IQ. Anyways, it involves doubting nearly everything in the universe or even within yourself. And based on just this conversation, I believe that it’s a likely source of the disturbing thoughts and sensations that you’ve been experiencing. The good news, is that it’s typically temporary and sometimes even seen as a philosophical gift.”

  She pulled a book from the shelf and handed it to him.

  “There was a famous philosopher named Descartes who has another quote that you may have heard before.” Dr. Flanagan pointed at the cover. ‘I think, therefore I am.’

  Pete’s eyes lit up recognizing the oft quoted line.

  “This is probably his most renowned work.” Dr. Flanagan continued. “It’s advanced, but I believe you could really benefit from it.”

  Pete looked at the book and the simple font on the front. “Discourse on the Method,” he read aloud.

  “Yes. And if any of his writing hits too close to home or triggers your anxiety in any way, I want you to stop reading. That’s perfectly okay. We can always build up to it. I’ll put in the prescriptions, and I’d like to set up a regular schedule for us to meet. Would that be alright with you?”

  Pete was again, amazed at the sudden optimism growing within him. Everything that Dr. Flanagan had said gave him hope. Every insight and suggestion landed at the right time, and in the right tone. It was the best he’d felt in weeks. “Yes. That’s alright with me.”

  Dr. Flanagan smiled. “I’m glad to hear that. And I’m so glad you came in tonight. I’m really looking forward to working together.”

  “Me too,” Pete replied. They shook hands. He grabbed his jacket, and walked out to his car.

  It was dark, but he didn’t care.

  Driving home Pete reflected on the events that had led to the appointment. Marveling once more at how easily he had lost control of his own thoughts. Frustrated, to be sure, but at least well enough to look at his situation objectively.

  A mental illness (temporary or chronic) is a poison, made up of one-part symptoms and two-parts fear of humiliation. But now that he no longer had to worry about hiding from Natalie or from work, the venom of fear that had ruled him, was slowly being diluted.

  What he had gained from his appointment with Dr. Flanagan wasn’t just hope. It wasn’t just prescriptions (Zoloft daily plus Xanax as needed). It was purpose and curiosity. Curiosity about the people that Dr. Flanagan had mentioned, and purpose in learning more about them.

  Curiosity, purpose, and hope. A powerful antidote for fear, and despair

  So, when he got home, he went immediately to the computer and started researching.

  Natalie, hearing the door, walked into the room, smiling. “Welcome back.” She said, putting her arms around him. “Watcha doin?”

  Ever since Pete had told her about his struggles, Natalie had tried hard not to act in any way that was out of the ordinary. She wanted so badly to “check in” on his mental state, but she loved him enough to wait until he was ready to talk about things.

  “I’m reading up on a couple of people that Dr. Flanagan talked about,” he replied.

  “Dr. Flanagan, your shrink?” Natalie continued smiling, obviously teasing. It was a gamble, but she knew her husband. Humor was still his comfort zone.

  Pete shot a sarcastic glare. “My psychiatrist.”

  Natalie laughed and looked at the computer screen. “So, who are they? What do you want to know about 'em?”

  Pete perked up at the chance to share. “Well, there’s this woman who lived during medieval times and…”

  “Medieval times!!” Natalie shouted playfully, doing her best impersonation of one of their favorite movies; The Cable Guy. She was also, clearly in a better mood.

  He looked at her with fake seriousness. “... yes. Anyway, this Julian woman got sick and almost died. She was super religious apparently, and after she pulled through, she decided to live her life alone so that she could better understand reality and, I guess, God. She was actually the first woman to ever publish a book in the English language!”

  “Ok. That is kind of cool,” Natalie admitted, “But why does it matter to you?”

  “Well, Julian has a quote that stuck with me,” Pete replied.

  Natalie, still in a playful mood, asked, “Was it ‘leave me alone. I’m trying to write a book’?” She paused awaiting his reaction. “Get it? Because of the living alone, and the writing and…”

  “Yeah. I got it,” Pete said flatly, trying his best to keep a straight face.

  “Well,” Natalie continued, “Do you think that maybe you might like to come into our room and be alone... with me?”

  Pete’s eyebrows lifted. And at that moment, he— who only a week ago could barely drink ice water—suddenly wasn’t thinking about reality or the universe.

  “Yes.” He looked up into her brown eyes. “Absolutely, I do.”

  And that evening, a husband and wife found a moment of peace and much longed-for comfort in the calm before the storm.