The next day I sat in my therapist Paul’s office, on the brown-leather sofa across from him. Every Thursday morning I went to his office. The walls were painted the color of sunflower petals, and there were matching bronze lamps and an end table. I assumed such a strong home-away-from-home vibe was intentional. Paul sat across from me, a yellow notepad resting on his khakis, an impressionist painting just above his head. I knew every detail of the green and brown landscape. It was where my eyes escaped to when I started to cry. Paul would hand me the first tissue, telling me how strong I was, encouraging me to “trust the process.” I could look away, but I couldn’t escape the self-imposed humiliation I felt from crying in front of any man my father’s age. My first visit, my family had filled the entire sofa. My mom had called a family intervention when my dad and I started shouting at the dinner table. Every Thursday afterwards, I sat in that same spot. I had been staring at the budding cottonwood tree for almost five minutes with a piece of paper in my hand, trying to hold back the tears that had begun to swell under my eyes as soon as I pulled into the parking lot. “What do you want to talk about today?” Paul asked. His eyes were naturally large and soft, but the reading glasses increased them to an almost cartoonish size. “I started having a panic attack,” I said, watching the small cottonwood leaves flicker green, jasmine, and then green in the spring wind. “So I took the anti-anxiety meds. And I’ve been taking them three times a day like you said, until I could come in and process it.” That was my new routine. Wake up in my childhood bedroom, swallow enough anti-depressants to turn a basset hound into a rodeo clown, go to my substitute teaching job where I spent my fifteen-minute breaks doing breathing relaxation exercises, come home, eat dinner with my parents, and watch TV until bed. And if anything set me off, I was supposed to take extra anti-anxiety meds until I could come in and process it with Paul.