Heavy Heart

“Daria Holmes?”

Daria’s heart skipped a beat as the assistant called her name from the door, holding a clipboard and weak, courteous smile. She collected the things around her – her coat, as it was growing cold, especially in London, her bag, and her Modern Philosophy textbook – and headed to the door. It was finally time. She was going to see Poppy’s therapist; she was going to take the step that she’d needed to take since that fateful day in September all those years ago.

She was a jumbled mess of nervous and excited, truly hopeful that something positive would come out of all of this. “That’s me,” she spoke softly to the nurse, tucking her hair behind her ear. Ever since Harry had told her that he liked it down, she’d been trying to wear it like that more often, though her top-knot was a bit of a security blanket.

“Doctor Gupta will see you in the third room on the left,” the nurse responded, handing her the clipboard. “If you could just fill out a short questionnaire while you wait, it will really help him assess your needs.”

Daria nodded, taking the clipboard in her hands and going to the room at the end of the hall. It seemed as though psychiatrists didn’t see their patients in fancy rooms with bed-like chairs and heavy curtains drawn over the windows; Daria found herself in a plain room with beige walls, several certificates nailed neatly near the window that allowed the light to flow in. She took a seat in a comfortable looking armchair, dropping all her belongings to her sides, and then took a look at the questionnaire.

“Have I ever had suicidal thoughts?” she muttered to herself, twirling the pen between her fingers. “Have I ever felt as though I have little to no control over my emotions, be they happy or sad? Have I ever harmed myself purposefully?”

Almost every box was checked in the ‘no’ category by the time she was nearly done with the questionnaire, and Daria was beginning to worry that she didn’t belong. She was already wrought with anxiety over how well the visit would go, and it seemed to be unfolding that she wasn’t suited for this kind of help. Until the questions went a different direction.

“Do you suffer from habitual avoidance – be it meeting new people, dating, or speaking around those you are not familiar with?”

“Do you often have thoughts inadequacy and low self-esteem?”

“Do those close to you believe you have unrealistic demands of yourself?”

“Do you often feel panicky?”

Her hands began to shake as she checked the final box, realizing that perhaps she really did need to see Dr. Gupta after all. When that realization came, she also realized that she was maybe not afraid of telling Dr. Gupta about what was going on with her, but more importantly, what results would that return.

A knock came at the door, which quickly swung open to reveal a tall, brown skinned man around fifty. He had a salt and pepper moustache to match his greying hair, wire frame glasses, and was wearing a simple red sweater and navy blue slacks. Daria wasn’t quite sure what she was expecting in Dr. Gupta, but she definitely wasn’t expecting the casual, smiling man who greeted her.

“Daria Holmes?” he asked, and when she nodded in response, he proceeded to a chair across from hers. “So nice to meet you. I’m Doctor Gupta. Any friend of Poppy’s is a friend of mine indeed.”

When he extended a hand to her she took it timidly, grasping it weakly in comparison to his firm grip. “Thank you for making time to see me,” Daria replied.

“Well, let’s get into it, shall we?” he suggested, taking the clipboard from her and scanning it quickly with his eyes. It was almost as though that sheet would tailor their visit more quickly to what she needed so that he could make his next appointment.

They sat and talked about her entire history leading up to why she decided to come and visit, the absolutely gripping anxiety she’d been feeling ever since she was a little girl. “And now I’m dating this guy, who I guess is pretty famous,” she continued tugging bashfully at her earrings. “I mean, I’ve told you everything else so far so I guess I can tell you that it’s Harry Styles, one of the guys from One Direction.”

Dr. Gupta gave her another smile, revealing a fantastically white line of teeth. “I must admit, I thought I recognized you from the tabloids but I didn’t recognize your name,” he hummed with a slight knowing nod. “I’m sure that’s been very hard on your anxiety. How does it make you feel?”

Daria found her heart picking up its rate, nervously picking at her shirtsleeves. “Honestly, I’ve been trying to stay away from the tabloids as much as possible,” she muttered. “I wasn’t really aware that I was featured in them enough to be recognizable. But yes, it makes my anxiety crazy even just to think about it. It’s more the people who watch me on campus.”

“Yes, of course,” he agreed, writing something on a notepad in his lap. “But you are happy with Harry? You feel that he doesn’t trigger your anxiety?”

Daria cast her gaze to the carpet, a knotted, gnarled shag style. “It’s not Harry that triggers my anxiety, it’s everything in the relationship that comes along with him. The relationship itself, his band mates, the gossip rags, what have you. But he’s so good to me, yes.”

“So overall, Harry himself is a source of happiness in your life,” he attempted to clarify, and when Daria nodded he continued scribbling on his sheet. “But there are stressors that come with him. What are the other sources of happiness in your life? How is school?”

Daria gave him a smile and gestured to her textbook on the floor. “I’m so unbelievably happy at Birmingham,” she answered, a dreamy air coming to her voice. “I wasn’t prepared for that; I was more prepared for an escape and to be on my own, the way I’ve been for a long time. But I have my friends and I have my schoolwork, and those are the things that keep me sane. Along with Harry.”

“It’s impressive for someone with your level of anxiety to make a change like that, to just come to England on your own and put yourself completely out there.”

Those words struck Daria like a sharp, hot coal. He was already assessing her anxiety as they spoke, to the point where he was able to say that she suffered from a high level? Perhaps above average? It was scary that he was able to throw her into a category so easily, though he’d probably done it a thousand times. She worried that she should have seen the signs sooner – perhaps if she’d gotten help sooner, she wouldn’t be so deeply set in her anxiety.

“And things with your mother? Have they improved at all?”

Daria bit her lip so hard that the metallic taste of blood rushed to the base of her teeth. She hadn’t spoken to her mother since she had spoken to her several weeks ago, and then before that since she left for Birmingham. To respond to Dr. Gupta, she gave a quick jolt of a head shake.

“I spoke with her briefly a few weeks ago, when things first came out between me and Harry,” she murmured, her eyes glued to the terrible carpet. “She wasn’t too happy. Before that, she ignored me ever since I left, even through September Eleventh. So when she called, I told her off. We haven’t spoken since.”

Dr. Gupta was quiet for a moment, scribbling words onto his pad diligently. “And not to ask the obvious, but how do you feel about that?”

Daria heaved a deep sigh, the tears buried deep in her ducts coming to her waterline. “I took care of her for so long, and now I need to take care of myself,” she stated. “She needs to take care of herself on her own, without any of my help. If she can’t be happy for my happiness, then I don’t want her in my life. I don’t.”

She was quiet for a moment, the soft sounds of graphite scratching on paper filling the room. A stray tear trickled down her cheek and she quickly brushed it away, hoping that Dr. Gupta hadn’t seen.

“But if we’re being honest, it breaks my heart.”

Dr. Gupta met her comment with silence; again the only sound in the room the sounds of his ever-present scribbling. He nodded quietly to himself, pushing his glasses up farther on his nose to prevent them from sliding off. Daria cast her gaze out the window as she struggled not to cry, struggled to stay strong. There was a tree in the midst of losing its leaves, the few stragglers looking withered and brown. But the sky behind was the brightest blue she’d seen yet in London.

“I’m sorry,” Daria mumbled, wiping another tear away from her cheek. “I don’t mean to get upset. I really do want to do this right, so I can get better. Whatever that means, whatever that takes.”

Dr. Gupta set down his notebook and glanced back at the clipboard, before setting that down too and at Daria straight with his deep brown eyes. “Well, then we will do whatever it takes,” he hummed confidently, giving her an encouraging smile. “I think I have a plan.”

“My immediate thought is to put you on medication, seeing as you have such a heightened level of anxiety and are at a high risk for panic attacks,” he continued. “It could be as easy as Prozac, Xanax, but most likely Ativan.”

Daria’s heart began to pound harder than ever before. Dr. Gupta’s words solidified that there was something truly wrong with her, that she was something that needed to be fixed. Daria had spent her whole life fixing other people that the thought of needing to be fixed herself was terrifying. Her mouth went entirely dry, hands trembling.

“But, I must say, you have a great drive your pulling through things on your own,” Dr. Gupta complimented, turning again to his notes and then back to Daria. “You came to England all on your own, completely out of your comfort zone. You choose to date one of the most popular people in the country, even though it can put you in situations that give you anxiety. You push through your anxiety, so I think we can find a way to push through it without medication.”

“Okay,” Daria said tentatively, her voice in a near whisper. “And how to we go about doing that? What do you suggest?”

“Well,” Dr. Gupta said, removing his glasses. “I think some meditation exercises could really benefit you. Channeling your breathing and your thoughts towards a positive center can really help lower anxiety. And watch toxins, like caffeine and alcohol. I’m sure you’ve noticed how much they can affect your thought processes.”

Daria was dumbfounded. She’d never realized before that her coffee habit perhaps had a hand in her anxiety. Her heart ached at the thought of letting go of coffee, but if Dr. Gupta suggested it, Daria was willing to try.

“I think the biggest thing is to try and identify your triggers, and to create a place where you can see your emotions laid out in a way that you understand,” he continued, his prescription coming to a close. “For next time, I want you to start a journal of things that make you feel something, especially the feelings you are feeling strongly. If you are feeling happy on a particular day, try and express that in your journal, whether it is in words, pictures, whatever you like. Try and make it accessible at all times, so that you can always have somewhere to channel your energy. It doesn’t matter if I can understand it, what matters is that you can understand it. Bring it to our next appointment, and that can help me further assess if we need to take greater action.”

Daria nodded, her resolve growing. She could do this. She could do something as simple as changing her morale, changing her way of thinking, changing her daily intake of caffeine.

“I’m going to write down the name of some texts that you should pick up on meditation and even perhaps on journaling, and especially on anxiety management without medication,” he spoke, scribbling some titles on another scrap of paper. “Go and pick these up, I think they could really be of use to you. But that’s it until next time. If you need me, you can certainly call. But I think we should give you some time to develop on your own before we take any drastic actions.”

“Thank you, Doctor Gupta,” Daria hummed, taking the paper before collecting the things around her. “I’m going to follow exactly what you say to a T. I won’t disappoint you.”

“It’s not about disappointing me, my dear,” he intoned sweetly. “It’s about disappointing yourself. You’re not doing this for me, you’re doing it for you. Remember that. Now go make another appointment with Linda at the desk. And until then, good luck.”

As she left the office with her slip of paper in tow, along with another appointment for a few more weeks out, Daria felt a little lighter. The feeling was an unfamiliar one, but she hoped that it would only grow better with time.

“Daria!” a familiar voice called out from the depths of the lobby, causing Daria to glance around in panic. Dr. Gupta’s office was located in a gigantic office building, where the lobby was as vast as Grand Central Station. She couldn’t spot the source of the voice, but soon the movement of a head of curly hair caught her eye.

“What are you doing here?” Harry asked, wrapping her up in an embrace and kissing her gently. “I didn’t know you were going to be in London.”

Daria’s heart jolted. She knew that she should tell Harry what she’d been doing in the building, that she was seeking help for her anxiety disorder. But something about saying those words aloud petrified her. She didn’t want Harry to worry about her, or to find her any more strange than she already was. In her heart, she knew he wouldn’t care, but something was preventing her from releasing those words into the air between them like smoke.

“I had a meeting with a sociologist on the fourth floor,” she muttered awkwardly, not even knowing if there would be such a thing in the building. “For a project in Populations. You’d think I could find a sociologist in Birmingham, but they’re actually pretty hard to come by. What are you doing here?”

“I was in a meeting with my manager,” he responded quickly. ”On the ninth floor. You know, media management and what-not. Why didn’t you tell me you’d been in London, love?”

Something seemed off about Harry seemed off. His smile wasn’t as bright as normal, and something in his green eyes seemed less vibrant. “I didn’t plan on staying for long,” she mumbled, feeling awful for lying to her boyfriend. “And we’re going to your parents tomorrow anyways. I figured you’d be busy.”

Harry looked hurt, his mauve lips curled into a slight frown. “But I’m not doing anything now,” she continued hopefully, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “We could go for dinner? I could stay at your place and we could just go together tomorrow?”

Harry’s frown turned to a grin, the award-winning quality returning. “Yes,” he replied, a bit more cheerily than before. “I’d love that.”

He took her hand in his, the largeness of them engulfing her small palms entirely. She felt safe in his grasp as they walked to his car in the garage, but something inside her panged guiltily. He deserved to know. But she couldn’t tell him. Not yet. Not then. Perhaps not ever.