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preliminaries.

      But for that, too, he is oddly grateful. Why exchange small talk when she already has the basic details?

      Putting into words what he experiences is a big ask though. Not least because it means acknowledging what he now realizes he is still finding it hard to accept within himself.

      A silence it is impossible to fill. Golden dust specks dance in the air.

      Her earrings gleam like talismans.

      `How often would you say you have them?’

      How often? When don’t I experience them?

       My whole life has become a panic attack.

      `Oh – on and off throughout the week’.

       Did she raise an eyebrow? Should he tone it down?

      `And what are they like?’

       What are they like?

       Completely disabling. I’m a basket case. Have to pull over to the side of the road, sometimes can’t drive for thirty minutes.

      `It’s like - ‘

       How could he describe them, even if he wanted to?

      `They’re – not pleasant’.

      A rueful laugh.

      Her eyes are directly on him again. But again it is not intrusive. If he could tell her, he would this time.

      `I need –’

      She pauses; sounds almost apologetic.

      `I just need to get a sense of what it is you experience. I know it’s hard. And that it is certainly not pleasant. Do you sweat?’

      `Yes’.

      No hesitation now.

      `Shake at all?’

      `Yes’.

      `Have trouble breathing?’

      `All of the above’.

      `And where are your thoughts? Are you aware of thinking anything? Of anything specific?’

       Too early to go there.

      `Not really, no’.

      A shrewd look.

       She doesn’t buy it.

      Some more talk, seemingly inconsequential. Except that it can’t be; the context precludes it.

      He is likely revealing himself all over the place.

       Well that’s OK. That’s what I’m here for. I should say as much as I can say.

      She is making it easy for him; she is implicitly helping him to relax. Some of his reserve is melting.

      Some of it.

      And then the session is over.

       Hey, where did that go?

      She is booking another one. Puts on little reading glasses; they make her look older.

       How old is she? Late thirties? Forty? Around my age.

      And her smile is warm.

      `So see you then, Ryan’.

      Those glinting earrings.

      But he doesn’t mind this time.

      And if he were to tell her, to the extent that he can, what would she do?

       Does she really want to see my fragility?

      To witness a gibbering mess? But he is beyond `big boys don’t cry’.

       This goes deeper than that.

      Memories of cowering; of absolute, abject terror. But little to attach them to.

       Have I made things up?

       Because I am certainly faking competence.

      But it wasn’t always like that.

       Why can’t I keep holding on? When I’ve been doing that for years?

       2

      `Coffee smells good’.

      `Gotta have it’.

      `Wish I could stop for some. But you pay big bucks if you’re late back to the pre-school’.

      `Yeah, I remember. We’re in the wrong industry. See you tomorrow’.

       No we’re not.

       This work is fascinating.

      But she can’t stay to argue the point. Not that anyone here would seriously disagree with her.

      This is an industry where you have to love what you do. Pay rate notwithstanding. Despite the poor financial remuneration and the constant risk of burnout, there are riches in this field that she couldn’t have imagined.

      Besides which, two years ago it had been hard to imagine finishing her studies at all. The constant assignments and self-work, as well as the need to pay the bills, had been exhausting.

      Looking at her own `stuff’ had comprised a large part of the curriculum. How could you presume to assist others in their healing if you haven’t attended to your own?

      Not that healing is definitive.

       We are all works in progress.

      `Mum!’

      Her little whirlwind throws himself at her, wrapping himself around her legs.

      `How’s my Matt?’

      Ruffles his hair; kisses his beaming little face.

       I used to think we all started out like that.

       Now I know better.

      She hopes she is giving him enough. He misses his dad. But the split was amicable and there is regular access.

      It’s not what happens but how you handle it.

      Or so she tells herself.

      `Look at this Mum!’

      A red finger painting, still wet and sticky.

      `Hey, it’s great!’

      It is too. It positively shines with the exuberance of the artist. Another hug, along with the hope that her clothes won’t end up stickily exuberant as well.

       That stuff’s a bugger to get out.

      Hard to embrace the moment sometimes – literally – and emerge unscathed.

      Going with the flow. She so wants to. And is getting better at it. Being a parent provides constant opportunities to practise.

      `Can we have pizza tonight?’

      `No! It’s not Friday yet!’

      It is tempting to indulge him, and also herself. At a basic level it would mean she doesn’t have to cook. But they have a weekly routine which for the most part it seems good to stick to.

       So much for spontaneity and going with the flow.

      But kids, like adults, need predictability and structure as well. Navigating the two is a basic life task. In various forms in the therapy room that challenge is present all the time.

      Later, when Matt is asleep, she has the deferred coffee while washing up.

      Running over the events of the day in her mind, and anticipating the day ahead, she can’t help but note the irony of trying to help clients to live more fully

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