She sits in her car for about twenty minutes figuring out her plan. Her route. Even though she had talked this through with her therapist two weeks ago and she’s gone through this in her head every night since before releasing to sleep.
First, making sure she had everything she needed for the trip. She looks into her purse to triple check everything was in its place. Phone, keys, wallet, notebook, pen, her order, emergency medication. Check. Then, getting the meter change out of the cup holder in the front seat. 20 cents exactly. She wouldn’t be in there long. Check. She triple checks the mirrors to see that no cars are around when she gets out. Check. Check. Check.
Closing her eyes, she completes her breathing exercises and fills out her four column chart in her notebook. She had gotten this exercise for the first time about five or six years ago from a therapist at her university, but never really used it. It always seemed silly. She knew how she was feeling. She knew what situations made her anxious, nervous, overwhelmed, frustrated, annoyed. She knew her physical and emotional reactions to things. She just wanted it to stop. About a month ago her latest therapist, Dr. Morainey, had introduced this brain workout to her once again. Every week she was supposed to fill out this chart every time she felt anxious. Once she recognized this within herself, which wasn’t hard due to the profuse sweating, picking of nails, shaky legs, and cheek biting, she was to record what she was doing, how she was feeling, what she was thinking, plus a “compassionate response” Dr. Morainey worded it as, where she would practice positive self talk and take it easy on herself.
After several years of trying this, she found it time consuming, exhausting, and overall unhelpful. She often would express this in her sessions but was usually told that she needs to give it time and work harder on it and that it won’t get better overnight. That’s typically when she had convinced the therapist that she was better and they stopped their appointments, forcing her to find a new doctor and start the whole process over again.
She scribbles in the proper columns.
Situation: Going to Neymar Cafe for a cup of coffee.
Emotional/Physical Reactions: Nervous, tight chest, shaky legs, sweaty palms
Thoughts: There are so many things that could go wrong right now. It’s a lot of pressure just going to a cafe. I don’t understand why this is so simple and so normal for everyone but me.
Compassion:
She doesn’t write anything at first. This part was always the part where she would roll her eyes and scoff, throwing the notebook down. This time, she remembers that Dr. Morainey actually requested to view her charts during their next meeting, since she had been refusing to fill them out. For fear of being consumed with disappointed looks at the next meeting, she scrawled, “I am doing something that is hard for me right now and that is okay. I will text my friend now and let her know that I have made it and that I might need to call her for support soon so that she is aware. And that’s okay.” Well, whether I believe that or not Dr. Morainey will be okay with it.
She closes the notebook and shoves it back into her bag along with her pen. Her fingers frantically typing at her phone, sliding across the letters producing countless typos, to notify her friend of her plans. Hopefully she doesn’t get annoyed by my text.
Though it wasn’t too sunny out, she puts on her sunglasses. People might not realize how shaky and worried she is if her face is half covered up. She might not see the people staring if they are a bit tinted.
She triple checks the mirrors again and opens the driver door, taking a step out. Her chest tugs at her and her stomach begins to tie itself in knots, both of them working together to pull her back into the safety of the car. Closing the door, she feels her heart beating faster and faster. Her entire body is working against her. Once her brain turns on her too, she would be back in her car, weeping. It would only be a matter of time. Walking around the car to the meter, she rests upon the passenger door and breaths slowly. After a few moments she puts in the change. Check.
Standing across the street from the cafe from across the street, watching the hustle and bustle of movement within and around the building, it doesn’t seem like such a big feat. People like me do all sorts of amazing things. I am only getting a coffee at a cafe. I can do this. A pit forms in her stomach and her thoughts race, fighting amongst themselves and against each other. Sabotage. She pulls on her gloves and tightens the fall scarf around her neck. She remembers Dr. Morainey encouraging her that the more she thinks positive thoughts, the more she will believe them. But belief and truth are two different things.
The building was newer but constructed to look old. Grey stone on the bottom half of the building, red brick layered on top. It was unclear where the cafe stopped and the apartments began. Large, rustic windows covered the front entrance, snuggly fit behind a few outdoor tables where umbrellas would be balancing in the summer time. "Neymar Cafe" written in bright, bold letters on the sign out front.
She paces back and forth, pretending to be lost and looking at her phone. Her body was not ready to enter, let alone her mind. There was no here and now. There was no past. There was only the future, full of what ifs. What if someone thinks her shoes are weird? Her pants too short? Her hair too neat? What if she fumbles for her order paper and the barista finds it odd that a 20 something year old girl can clearly speak but doesn’t? Will the barista be offended by this? Will anyone in the cafe even notice? What if- Stop.
The quicker she goes in, the quicker she gets her coffee. The quicker she gets her coffee, the quicker she can escape. The quicker she can escape she returns to undeniable safety. Then she can relax.
She looks both ways three times, left right, left right, left right. Check. Nearly running across the road she is now face to face with the entrance. As she walks in, a man storms out past her, cursing and face red hot with anger. She panics for a second, about to turn back, but her attention was distracted by a buzz on her phone. Sounds great, Meg, let me know when you leave. :) A sigh of relief exits her mouth as she reads her friend’s response, and suddenly the angry man who shoved by, and whatever evils hid behind the door to make him so upset, don’t seem as scary anymore.
As usual, her eyes do an instant berserk scour of the room. They were always quick and came with her judgments. A snapshot mainly to compare to herself and to see if anyone paid her any attention.
A couple by the window looking quite stricken. Hopefully they don’t notice her. They seem too engrossed in their conversation. Their hands clenching together as they scan each other’s faces for answers.
A tall girl wearing a short skirt walking back to the restroom. Is she crying?
Two male friends in their mid thirties sitting by the counter enjoy staring at the woman walking to the restroom with capricious expressions of lust accompanied with snickers.
What looks like a graduate student sits perched at a high table sipping a coffee and spilling over her thick books, making her chunky computer seem small.
A fifty-something man sitting in the front corner with a briefcase and a bluetooth headphone, talking loudly.
A boy slouched alone in the back corner by the restrooms, facing the wall.
No immediate threat. Except for the fact that someone could be hiding a gun, or there is no carbon monoxide monitor and we are all slowly being poisoned, or- Stop. Next step is to order your coffee. You looked at the menu before coming, you know what to order and have the right amount of money in your bag, she thinks to herself, still trying to bring her heart rate down.
Approaching the counter, she triple checks the menu to make sure what she had wanted is indeed on the menu and that it is indeed $2.75. Check. She rummages in her purse to grab her money and order out on the neatly ripped piece of paper, gripping it between her right forefinger and thumb while her left hand holds the money and picks at its fingernails. But there is no one around to take her order. Her heart starts to beat faster.
I should just leave. There is a bell here but how rude of me to use it? The worker is probably swamped with work in the back. I can hear the dishes clattering in the sink. I should just leave.
As soon as these thoughts appear, the barista emerges from the back room behind the counter. She has on a Neymar Cafe apron overtop a long black tee and black skinny jeans. Her eyes are dark with a lot of heavy makeup. She doesn’t look more than 17 or 18 years old. Her name tag reads “Sophie” in graffiti like style letters. She looks surprised to see her and is frantic as she hurries to the front counter, apologizing profusely.
“Hey there, sorry about that, what can I get ya,” she says kindly, as she relogs into the cash register.
I hope you’re not intruding on her work. I mean, she could be having a break right now and continue whatever work she was doing in the back. You don’t want to be a burden to her by coming in here- no stop. You’re allowed to exist and take up space. You’re allowed to get a coffee. But what if she thinks it’s weird that you hand her a piece of paper? What if- Stop.
She hands the barista the order that she had pre-written. Sophie doesn’t even flinch when she peers over to read it. She squints a little and glances up at Meg, then quickly back down to the order.
“Okay. That’ll be $3.00.” She says as she leans forward, punching in the order and sliding the piece of paper back to her customer, then turning to start the coffee.
Wait, what? $3.00? I thought it was only $2.75. That’s what it said on the website. But what if that was an outdated menu? No, I was sure to triple check the date of the latest update. It was only last week. But, then why is she saying it is $3.00? It even says $2.75 on the menu up there. I even checked before coming up. Or does it? Maybe my sunglasses are to blame for me misreading? But I can’t take them off now to look at the menu, I’ve already ordered. Is she overcharging me on purpose or maybe she just doesn’t realize? It says $3.00 on the little bar thingy by the register. Did she misspeak? Or mistype? Do I say something? I don’t think that’s the right amount. I have the $3.00, but this wasn’t part of the plan. I need to decide soon or she will notice I am not handing her the money and will then ask what the hell I am doing just standing here, hidden behind my sunglasses. Just grab in your purse Meg, and grab the extra quarter it’s really not that big of a deal you don’t need to worry. This is not a bad situation and could be much worse. You could have been hit by a car as you crossed the street earlier. There could’ve been an active shooter in here that I would’ve walked into. What if a fire had started in the kitchen in the back and I didn’t know until it was too late? Things could be much much worse, Megara. Pay the $3.00. It won’t help lower your heart rate by thinking all of this so quickly but it is hard to stop. Your hands are so sweaty just grab the extra quarter already. It’s just right in your purse. It’s right there. It’s just right on top. It’s there. You-
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Sophie walks back to the register after starting to prepare her coffee. “I accidentally put in the wrong order. Yours is only $2.75. Sorry about that. We just changed some of our prices and I am still trying to remember them all.” She updates the amount on the screen, pulling her black shirt down again even though it was already past her wrists. She sits the finished coffee down next to the register.
Meg places the money on the counter and grabs the paper coffee cup, making a hasty exit. She could tell that I needed this to-go. Thank you.
She nearly runs into a pair of friends who seem to be in their early thirties on her way out. They are holding the door open, just about to walk in. Meg keeps her head down, slides through the open door, and makes a beeline to the car, not triple checking for the traffic as she crosses the road. What if they weren’t holding the door open for me? What if I just rudely assumed they were allowing me out first? They didn’t seem to say anything or make any gestures, but how could I have just walked through the door like that? I should’ve let them enter first. Wait did I hand the girl the money or just leave it on the counter? I didn’t even wait for confirmation of payment did I? Oh god, she probably thinks I am so rude. Her sweaty palm fumbles around for the keys buried in her purse. She is panting now and can feel her heart in her throat, ready to puke. Her car chirps as it unlocks and she flings the door open. Jumping into the car, she tosses her purse to the passenger seat and holds her coffee close as she slams the door shut and locks the door immediately behind her.
She closes her eyes and starts her breathing exercise before reaching for her Situation-Emotion-Thought-Compassion paper and pen, still holding the coffee for warmth.
“Sitting in my car, after getting my coffee.”
“Overwhelmed. Annoyed. Worried. Mad.”
“Mad at myself that I can’t enjoy experiences that involve other people. Mad at myself that I can’t have an appropriate interaction with another person.”
“You filled out the paper so Dr. Morainey can read it. Good job.” Not exactly a compassion thought for herself, but it is all she can muster. Slamming the notebook down on the passenger seat, the tears dying on her cheeks, she dials her friend.