Ever since her first panic attack, whenever Amelia felt stressed or anxious, she focused her thoughts on soccer. Because for as long as she could remember, the pitch had been her happy place. Talking about soccer with her new therapist helped to alleviate that crushing feeling in her chest and was easier than talking about the real cause for her burnout.
Although, perhaps, she shouldn’t have tried to recruit her therapist for the 40+ league that didn’t even exist yet. She could have also guessed that Jill wasn’t one for rowdy sport, although you just never knew. Some of the women she played with were unrecognizable to Amelia when they were dressed in office attire.
“I wouldn’t be much of an asset,” Jill said. She was smiling again. “I’ve never kicked a ball in my life.”
This was Amelia’s first experience with a therapist and she hadn’t expected her to smile so much. Maybe she just wanted to put Amelia at ease. It was kind of working, although Amelia was still pretty nervous.
“If you know anyone in our age group from the neighborhood who would be interested…” Amelia inwardly scolded herself for not letting this go. On the other hand, Jill must have heard people say far worse things. Especially first-timers who didn’t really know where to begin.
“Sure.” The skin around Jill’s eyes crinkled. She surely had one thing going for her as a therapist: the woman oozed kindness. It was etched into her face somehow. Or maybe that’s what happens when it’s your job to listen to people’s worries all day long. Your face adapts. That soothing expression becomes permanent. Amelia wondered if any studies had been done about that. She made a mental note to go on Google Scholar later… Argh, no. No looking up any academic research. Amelia was on leave. But it was hard to totally switch off her scientific brain.
“It, um,” Amelia started again. She’d beaten around the bush long enough. “It seems I have a very difficult time relaxing.” She chuckled nervously. “Even on the pitch I’m always doing some sort of calculation to try and predict where the ball will go next.” She shook her head. “I know it sounds a little nuts. Obsessive even.” Another chuckle. “I guess that’s why I’m here.”
“Is it possible to make such a prediction? I thought soccer was mostly a game of chance?”
Amelia frowned. “Whoever told you that doesn’t know the first thing about soccer. I mean, sure, chance and luck have a great deal to do with it, but I would say definitely no more than 50% of the game is down to chance. Technique is very important as is physical condition and of course so is the composition of the team. I wouldn’t say—” Amelia caught herself. She was waffling on, trying to drive home a point that had no importance in this conversation. Although on this particular subject she knew for certain that a scientific study had been done. She’d pored over it with great interest.
“It’s mainly me who doesn’t know the first thing about soccer.” Jill wrote something down again.
Amelia shuffled in her chair. It was a slightly disconcerting thing to witness—someone making notes about her.
“Whenever I have a pressing question about it in the future, I’ll know who to call from now on.” Jill grinned at her.
“I’m sorry. I get quite passionate about the whole thing. My life used to totally revolve around work, but now it seems that soccer has taken its place. I’m on sick leave, which I utterly despise. I want to work, but… I can’t. It makes me feel so powerless.”
“It’s completely normal to feel this way, Amelia.” Jill paused. “In a way, it’s good that you have soccer to turn to.”
“Due to my low energy levels, I’ve missed more than a few practices and let’s just say it’s not that difficult to replace me on the team.”
“Would it be fair to say that you’re currently feeling like everything’s slipping away from you?”
“I think that would be a pretty accurate assessment.” Now that she was a good while into her first session, the burst of adrenaline that had brought her there seeped from her body. Against her will, she heaved a big sigh. “I’m sorry.” Her voice broke a little. “I’m such a mess. I don’t even know where to begin to fix this.”
“You’ve already begun,” Jill said. “You’re here. Coming to me was the hard part. I’ve got your back now.”
Amelia summoned every ounce of willpower she could to hold back the tears gathering behind her eyes. She wasn’t the crying type—at least not until she’d crashed at work with her first panic attack. Oh, the shame of going through that mortifying ordeal in front of her co-workers. At first, she believed she was having a heart attack, despite all the scientific evidence pointing to the contrary. She’d had blood work done only a few weeks prior and her physical health was optimal for her age. There were no indications for any cardiovascular disease in her body, no matter the hours she worked. There had only been one conclusion to draw: what Amelia was going through wasn’t physical. It was mental. It was all in her head.
Then Jill did that thing Amelia had seen every single therapist on television do. She pushed a box of tissues toward her client. Toward Amelia. For heaven’s sake. She wasn’t even crying yet. Or was she? The tiniest amount of moisture had pooled in the corner of her eye. Amelia guessed Jill could read the signs like no other. Pushing the tissues in her direction was her wordless way of saying that Amelia could cry all she wanted. Better here than anywhere else, Amelia thought, and, with a sharp flick of her wrist, pulled a tissue from the box.
“Do you live around here?” Jill’s voice was soft.
Amelia nodded. She pressed the tissue to the underside of her nose, just to do something with it. She wasn’t ready to admit that she was close to tears. She wasn’t one to surrender so easily, which was part of the reason she was sitting in this very chair—she knew that much.
“Have you heard of Glow? The yoga studio down the street from here?”
“I’ve walked past it.” Amelia took a deep breath. Jill was giving her time to regroup.
“Have you considered yoga or meditation?”
“Who hasn’t in this day and age?”
Jill just shot her a smile.
“I’m a soccer player,” Amelia said. “I’m not the kind of person to fold myself into various impossible positions in the company of a bunch of housewives on mats. It doesn’t align with how I think of myself.”
“Everything’s a scientific analysis with you, isn’t it?” Did something in Jill’s blue eyes sparkle? Amelia noticed for the first time the darker color of Jill’s eyebrows didn’t match her blonde hair.
“I’m a soccer player and a scientist.” Amelia raised a shoulder.
“What else are you?” Jill quipped—at least it felt like a quip. “What other nouns apply to you?”
Amelia couldn’t immediately think of anything else. Sure, she was a lesbian, but she hardly felt like one these days. She hadn’t practiced the art of lesbianism in a good long while. She simply hadn’t had the energy, despite a new girl on the team showing unmistakable interest in her.
“You’re someone’s daughter, perhaps?” Jill tried.
“That I am, but my parents live on the Gold Coast and we’re not really that close. It’s mostly a proximity thing.”
“A sibling?”
“That, too, but my only brother lives in London.”
“A friend?”
Amelia nodded. “Although a lousy one these past few months.”
“Doesn’t matter. I’m sure your friends have had their own ups and downs over the years you’ve known them.”
Amelia nodded. What other nouns could she attribute to herself? Her mind was drawing a huge blank. That was what she mainly was these days: someone who drew blanks when asked a direct question. As though her brain was just so tired. As if, after all these years, it had finally had its fill of science, when it had only got energized by it before. The sight of an equation used to light Amelia up like a Christmas tree. Now it made her queasy.
“Do you like to read? Watch TV? Go to the theater? Dine out? Go to the movies?”
“I used to read all the time, but ever since my first panic attack, I can’t seem to focus on the words long enough. It’s as if the sentences are swimming in front of my eyes.”
Jill wrote something down again.
“I do like some fine dining,” Amelia admitted. “I’m a restaurant snob, in case you’d like to write that down.”
“Do you like art?” Jill asked, seemingly suppressing a grin.
“Good question. I don’t really know. There’s been a real boom of art galleries in the area the past few years and sometimes I walk past a window and I really like a painting or a sculpture, but I can never really explain why I like it or why it might be good, which really bugs me.”
“Does everything need to be explicable?” Jill tilted her head sideways.
“Well, yes.” Duh.
“Yet not everything is.”
“I tend to stay away from inexplicable events or experiences.”
“Okay.” With a neutral expression on her face, Jill made a note.
Amelia wished she could get a look at that notepad, but she knew that was not how it worked.
“For the record,” Amelia said. “As a scientist, I’m hyperaware of the many events that science can’t yet explain. As a biochemical researcher, I know very well that how our brain works is still very much a mystery. But that doesn’t mean that there isn’t an explanation. It only means we need more time to explain it.”
“Have you ever wanted to be anything else other than a scientist?”
“No.”
“But would you now say that you’ve fallen out of love with the sciences somewhat?”
“No.” Amelia shook her head vehemently. “My problem is not with science. It’s with what the company I work for, and all the other pharma companies, use science for. As though all it takes is to invent a pill for every ailment. Or worse, an ailment for every medicine we can invent. I’ve grown so disillusioned by the whole thing. By the financial side of it all.” She sighed again. “Maybe by capitalism in general. By the whole notion that money, and nothing else, makes the world go round.”
“There’s a lot to unpack there.” Jill rested her calm gaze on Amelia.
Don’t I know it. At least paying someone to listen to all the issues Amelia had acquired over the past forty-five years had the potential of being money well spent. At least Big Pharma had paid her well, and she might as well use the money for something to make her feel better—to counterbalance what earning that money had taken out of her.