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“You seem quite tense,” Camille began.
“There’s a man outside,” Nan said, chewing on a fingernail. “Just standing there, staring at the building. He was there last time too. Do you know who he is?”
Camille knew exactly who it was. Doug Weatherly trying to intimidate his wife, intimidate her. But Chelsea didn’t have an appointment today and Camille was now meeting with her at a different location. He wasn’t giving up. “No one you need to worry about,” Camille soothed. “Tell me about your week.”
“Awful, terrible, the same as always,” Nan said. “I work twelve-hour days and my boss constantly tells me how much of screwup I am. She’s ruthless and if you cross her, she’ll bury you.”
“Ah,” Camille said, glad for the opening. “Sounds intense. What is your line of work? I don’t think you mentioned it.”
Nan twisted the silver ring on her index finger. “Do I have to say?” she asked.
“No, you don’t,” Camille answered. “But any information you can share will help me understand your anxiety, what you are going through.”
Nan nodded but didn’t answer Camille’s question. “Half the time I feel like someone is sitting on top of me.” Nan pressed a hand to her chest. “I can’t breathe. I literally feel like I’m going to die.”
“That sounds like it could be a panic attack,” Camille observed. “Does something specific happen that precedes that feeling? Something that you can point to?”
“It’s because of her,” Nan said. “It starts just before I leave for work. I’ve been late twice in the last week alone.”
“You don’t feel like you can confide in your employer? Tell her what’s going on?” Camille asked.
Nan gave a harsh laugh. “That’s a no,” she said. “My boss has no patience for ineptitude. She’ll see a panic attack as a sign of weakness. I can’t talk to her about this.”
Camille wondered if Nan’s boss, and Nan by default, had a high-profile position and this was why she insisted on wearing the sunglasses, the hats, the clothes that ate her up. Camille leaned forward in her chair. “I want you to know that having anxiety attacks has nothing to do with being strong. They are your body’s way of telling you that something in your life needs to be attended to.”
“And you think you can help me with that?” Nan asked skeptically.
“I do,” Camille said. “But if I’m going to help, I will need to know more about your situation. I’m going to have to ask questions. Possibly ones that will make you feel uncomfortable. You are going to need to trust me, Nan. What do you think? Are you willing to give me that chance?”
Nan nodded, took a deep breath, and grasped Camille’s hand. Her grip was much stronger, more assured this time. Camille once again caught sight of a dragonfly tattoo on the inside of Nan’s wrist and wondered about its significance.
“I think I can do that,” Nan said, her voice breaking.
“Very good,” Camille said. “I know you are hesitant to talk about the work you do, but maybe you can tell me more about your fears. Are you worried if you quit you won’t get another job?”
“We’re in the middle of a big project and she’d kill me if I quit,” Nan said. “I’ve worked for her for years and if I can’t use her as a reference my résumé would be one big black hole.” She rubbed her arms as if she was cold. “Besides, I don’t know if I actually want to quit. I owe my boss a lot. She was there for me during a very difficult time. I don’t think I could do that to her right now.”
Camille longed to pull the sunglasses from Nan’s face. It was so hard to get a handle on her patients without looking into their eyes.
“Your boss sounds like someone who is very important to you,” Camille said. “So what I hear you saying is that you’d like some tools to handle your situation until you are ready to make a decision as to whether or not to stay in your current position. At least at this point.”
Nan nodded.
“Why don’t you tell me a little bit more about your boss...?” Camille held up a hand when Nan began to protest. “No specifics. I don’t need to know who, when, or where. Just the basics—just the what.”
Nan took a deep breath and began talking in her low, husky voice shaky with emotion.
Nan was right. Her boss was a piece of work. Verbally, sometimes physically, abusive.
Camille studied Nan’s face. Though she couldn’t see Nan’s eyes, she was obviously tortured. Catching Camille looking at her, Nan self-consciously got to her feet and walked over to the Henni Alftan oil painting on the wall. A few years ago, on a trip to France, Camille discovered the artist’s work and fell in love with the painting, which depicted an empty fig-colored chair sitting in the middle of a shadowed room. Though it was well beyond her budget, Camille had to have it.
“Okay. I know sharing that with me must have been difficult,” Camille said soothingly. “So let’s focus on your panic attacks. There are many strategies you can use to help ease your anxiety: exercise, a good sleep schedule, meditation. I can even write you a prescription for medication...”
“No, no,” Nan said, in a rush. “I don’t want medication. Not yet. I just want to know what to do.”
Camille’s watch beeped, signifying the end of the session.
“Next week we’ll talk more about what you do have control over,” Camille said, walking Nan to the door. “Determine what is healthiest for you. But I have to say, Nan, I do think we have to discuss whether this job is the best environment for you.”
