In memory of Nicole Lewanski

Ida Summers & Associates
24 Sentinel Street, Cremorne
Ida Summers was a name already familiar to me. I heard it dropped every so
often in the school playground, like a status symbol. She had a reputation for
treating damaged adolescent girls.
It was strange. The words “panic attack” were thrown around so often that I
used to think nothing of it, applying the expression to the most trivial things. But
now whenever I heard it, my stomach turned itself into knots. I used to be
bulletproof, and I didn’t even know it.
Describing a panic attack to someone who has never experienced one is
impossible. However, to one who has, no explanation is needed. You just have
to say the word “anxiety,” and their eyes would light up with a knowing look. A
mixture of “Welcome to the club” and “I know it sucks, but at least you’re not
alone.”

---

The other night I was watching a movie when, midway through, it went out
of sync. As the actors spoke, their words no longer matched up with the
movement of their lips. I picked up the remote and tried the pause button. When
that didn’t work, I tried to restart the movie, hoping it would fix the problem. In
the end I gave up and just stopped watching it altogether. That was when the
realization hit me; that out-of-sync feeling is exactly what anxiety is. Only,
imagine it is not on a movie screen but in your brain. The worst thing is you
have no control over it. There is no fix. You have to wait until things begin to
feel normal again, but when you’re in that state of mind, you can’t tell if it ever
will. And that’s what makes it so terrifying.
I 
ARRIVED
AT
the clinic twenty minutes before my appointment. I was still in a
bad frame of mind from the argument with Mum earlier. I tried my best not to
think about it.
The building was a two-story brick terrace house next to a row of boutiques, a
mini shopping mart, and a secondhand book store. I pushed through the wrought
iron gate and made my way up the concrete footpath to the bright red door. To
my right was an intercom next to a rectangular plaque that read 
Ida Summers
,
along with two other names I didn’t recognize.
 
I pushed the red button labeled
Call.
I heard a burst of static, and a female voice, almost childlike, came on.
“Hello?”
“Hi, it’s Audrey for my eleven-o’clock appointment with Ida,” I said into the
speaker.
“Wonderful, come in.”
There was a buzzing sound followed by a click as I pushed the door open. I
walked into a small reception room and was greeted by a petite lady dressed in a
gray pantsuit.
“Hello,” she said smiling at me from behind her desk. “Is this your first time
with Ida?”
“Yes, it is.”
She stood up and began riffling through a filing cabinet before pulling out a
piece of paper.
“Can you please fill this out?”
“Sure,” I replied, taking the form from her tiny hands.

---

“A
UDREY
?” I 
HEARD
as I was flicking through a magazine. When I looked up, I
saw a lady in her early thirties standing by the doorframe. Her inky black hair was
cut into a sharp bob, and a pair of tortoiseshell glasses framed her china-doll
features.
“Yes.”
“I’m Ida,” she said with a smile. “Come with me.”
I followed her up a narrow flight of steps and through a wood paneled door.
Ida’s office was small and stark, the furniture sparse. It was almost
monochromatic, with eggshell walls and abstract art; geometric patterns flourished
and faltered within frames of brushed aluminum. A neat row of certificates were
displayed on an otherwise bare wall proclaiming to Ida’s numerous areas of
expertise. A tall, narrow window positioned behind a solid oak desk cast little
light into the dimly lit room. “Over here, darling,” she said, waving at a brown
leather lounge chair in the center of the room. “You can sit here. Put that shawl
over you if you get a bit chilly; I like to have the window open. You can smoke
in here if you want.”
“It’s okay; I don’t smoke,” I said, settling myself into the lounge.
“Wonderful to hear, love; I wouldn’t recommend it,” she said with a quick,
throaty laugh. “Though you don’t mind if I do?”
“No, I don’t mind,” I replied. She drew a cigarette from a silver case and lit it
with a fluorescent pink Zippo. She took a long drag and sighed with pleasure,
blowing the smoke out the window. Then sitting at her desk, she regarded me
carefully.
“You’re a pretty one,” she said. “How old are you—sixteen? Seventeen?”
I pulled the dark blue shawl across my body. “Turning eighteen. It’s my
birthday in a few days.”
“Well, happy birthday in advance!” she said brightly. “Are you comfortable,
dear?”
“Yes, thanks.”
“Any plans for your big day?”
“No, not yet.”
“Anything you’re hoping for?”
Rad’s face filled my mind in the same way a camera lens brings a blurry image
sharply into focus. I felt a tug of longing in my chest—one quickly replaced with
a wave of guilt.
“No, not really,” I lied.
She gave me a thoughtful look.

---

“So,” she said with a smile, “tell me what brings you here.”
I shrugged. “My parents, I suppose. They think I have issues.”
“And how do you feel about that?” she asked.
“I don’t know. Mum drives me crazy.”
“She does?”
“Yeah, she’s always on my case. We had a huge argument just this morning.”
“Oh?” said Ida, taking another drag of her cigarette. “What was it about?”
“It’s a long story,” I mumbled, looking away.
“Well, we have almost an hour to kill.”
I smiled in spite of myself.
“She cheated on my dad a few years back. I don’t like thinking about that
period in our family’s history.”
“And that’s the reason why you were arguing? About something that happened
years ago?”
“No, not really. Once in a while I bring it up.”
“As a weapon against her?”
“Only when I want to go nuclear. I know it’s wrong.”
“So what was the argument really about?”
I shook my head. “Something stupid, I don’t know.”
“About a boy?” she guessed.
I was about to deny it, but I could see from her expression that I had given
myself away.
“It’s so cliché, isn’t it?”
“There’s a reason why things in this world turn into clichés. It’s because
they’re common,” she said with a smile. “So does this boy have a name?”
“His name is Rad. It’s a messy situation.”
“Why?”
“I met him at a funeral—he’s Ana’s boyfriend.” After a short pause I added,
“She’s a girl I went to school with. It was her funeral.”
“Oh,” said Ida. “What happened to Ana?”
“She took her own life.” I bit down on my lip and looked away.
“I see,” she said, with a heavy sigh. “What a terrible tragedy.” She stubbed out
her cigarette on a red heart-shaped ashtray, her eyes meeting mine. “So, you’re
feeling guilty about your attraction to Ana’s boyfriend?”
“Yeah,” I said, twisting the tassel ends of the blue shawl around my forefinger.
“Plus, to complicate matters, I have a boyfriend too. His name is Duck.”
“How long have you known him?”

---

“Since forever.”
“And how do you feel about him?”
“Well, he’s like family to me. He lives just down the street, and our mothers
are best friends. Duck’s been there for every birthday, every Christmas, practically
every milestone in my life. I suppose it was a natural thing, for us to wind up
together.”
“How long have you been an item?”
“Since we were fourteen. He saved my life.”
Her eyes widened. “He did?”
I nodded. “I had an accident, down by the lake. I almost drowned, but he
saved me. After that, I suppose I felt like . . .” I paused.
“Like you were in some way indebted to him?”
My mind shot back to that night I snuck into Duck’s bedroom. Up until then,
there was a firm line drawn, at least for me. Until he pulled me from the bottom
of that lake, from certain death, I thought of him as a friend and nothing more.
Although I never said it out loud, I did wonder from time to time whether we
would have been a couple if I had never gone to the lake that day.
“When someone saves your life, I suppose you do feel a sense of obligation.” I
frowned. “Not that I don’t love Duck; I just feel like we don’t have anything in
common.”
She nodded. “And do you know how he feels about you?”
“Duck has this fixed idea in his mind about the two of us. He’s studying law
next year like he always planned, and once he gets his degree, he wants to settle
down.”
“What do you think about his plan?”
“I think it’s something I always went along with because it was so far off in the
future that it didn’t feel real to me. Now that it’s getting closer, I feel panicky
about it. I don’t want that life. Maybe I did once, but since I met Rad, it feels
like there’s a whole other dimension.” I paused and chewed on the tip of my
thumb. “It’s almost like there was only an up and down before him, but now I
have discovered you can also go sideways too. Does that make any sense?”
Ida nodded. “Actually, it makes perfect sense.” She reached across her desk and
grabbed a notepad and pen. “It’s clear you’re going through a tough time,” she
continued. “Are you in your final year at school?”
“Yeah.”
“So you have your upcoming exams to deal with too.” She gave me a
sympathetic look. “No wonder you’re finding it difficult to cope.”

---

“I am. Everything seems to be happening all at once.”
“You poor thing,” said Ida as she scribbled something on her notepad. “Were
you close to Ana?”
“No, but my best friend, Candela, was really close to her.”
“And how is she doing?”
“I’m not sure,” I frowned. “She seems to be okay, which is weird. I thought
she would be a lot worse.”
“Everyone grieves in their own way.”
“I suppose.”
“And your problems began only recently?” Ida asked. “After Ana’s death? How
did you feel, when you heard the news?”
“Shocked at first. Numb, if anything.” I felt a chill go down my spine, and I
pulled the blue shawl tighter around my body. “But later that night—well, it was
weird. I had this sensation I’ve never experienced before. It was like . . . my mind
was being pulled from my body. That’s the only way I can explain it. I thought I
was going crazy. I’ve been looking up the symptoms online, and I think it was a
panic attack.”
Ida nodded. “I would say that’s what it was. Have you had another one since?”
“Yes, and I feel like I’m always on the verge of one. Do you think it will keep
happening?”
“It’s likely.” The look she gave me was almost apologetic, and my heart sank.
“The worst thing is the constant anxiety.”
“I know, darling,” she said. “The worrying is a vicious cycle. Most people tend
to think themselves into full-blown panic attacks. But I have something that
might help you.”
She reached into her drawer and pulled out a small glass jar containing a cluster
of rubber bands. She unscrewed the cap, fished one out, and came around to
where I was sitting, handing the piece of brown elastic to me. I gave her a
bemused look as I took it from her outstretched hand.
“Slip that onto your wrist,” she said.
I did what she asked.
“Good girl.” Without warning, she pinched the elastic with her thumb and
forefinger, pulled it right back, and then let it go.
“Ouch!” I cried, as the sharp sting of rubber bit into my skin. I pulled my hand
away from her. “What the hell?”
“Sorry, honey. You see, when you find yourself getting into a cycle of worry,
that sharp 
ping
snaps you out of your own head. It’s a way to ground you and

---

bring you back to reality.”
“Oh,” I said softly. I began to see the logic behind the idea and was filled with
a spark of hope.