Im waiting in the reception room. Ive not been here long, maybe ten minutes or so.

The room is small. It has been thoughtfully decorated, made to feel inviting. Two
chairs line each wall, and in the centre of the room a round table is placed,
considerately offering a box of tissues and some relevant leaflets. I listen to the
ticking of the clock on the wall, and the constant fall of the rain outside.
Im wondering why Im here, really. Ive started wringing my hands together
and tapping my feet on the carpeted floor. My wedding ring twists in its place, and I
ache for his arms to be around me. I am very alone in this moment. The feeling knots
in my body, courses through me in a wave of sickness. I think I want to leave, but I
dont want to make a scene.
There are some other people waiting, too. A woman, much older than me. She
sits very still and upright in her chair. She wears a polo neck jumper and a pair of ill-
fitting jeans. Her handbag rests on her lap; she clings to it with both hands. She stares
at the table, fixated. I dont think shes thinking of anything at all.
A man, younger, is slouched in the chair next to mine. I am careful not to
stare, instead taking in what I can of him in my peripheral vision. He twitches with a
nervousness that seems almost inherent. I picture his mother, estranged, holding her
strained connection to him through fortnightly phone calls.
Then there is a tall, dark haired woman, maybe ten years older than me,
standing in the doorway to the reception room. We three waiting lift our heads to her
simultaneously; it is my name that she says. Her voice sounds like an echo in a dream;
I take a second to replay it in my mind, before I gather my things, take one last glance
at the man, and follow her out of the room.

Into another room. This one is different, less personal. Neutral. I dont have long to
take anything in before I find myself sat in one of two large, cushioned armchairs.
Susan (I remember her name, now) sits in the opposite chair. There is no window in
this room. Instead, the rain trickles gently off a mottled skylight in the ceiling, casting
a strange, grey afternoon light into the four-walled space. Susan crosses her legs under
an ankle-length corduroy skirt, and pushes her thin, brown hair away from her face. I
am suddenly struck with a bolt of anxiety, as I realise I have absolutely nothing to say
to this woman.
Well, its lovely to meet you, Cassandra. My name is Susan.
Her voice drips like honey from a spoon. The rhythmic tumble of the rain
calms my nerves. Therapeutic.
Thank you, Susan. Its good to be here. Am I lying?
Susan takes a Moleskine from her large folder, and flicks through the note-
filled pages. So when we spoke on the phone, you said youd been feeling down
recently, and you werent too sure why.
Had I used the word down? Yeah, thats right.
You told me youd been experiencing feelings of anxiety that you were
finding difficult to find reasons for. You said youd been feeling out of sorts.
That I remembered saying. At thirty years of age, happily married with a
decade of joy and precious memories behind me, I had started feeling afraid of the
world. I couldnt look at the sky anymore without feeling an overwhelming sense of
fear. I wrapped myself in the simplicity and familiarity of things I felt safe with my
husband, my home, the select tendencies that made me myself. Id lost the taste for
life without limits. Indeed, I was out of sorts.
Thats the best way I can describe it. I say. Although really, I mean to say
only.