Happy Place

I am dancing, but it is more like existing. Existing here, in this perfectly beautiful place. My body absorbs everything around me: the delicious warmth of a never-setting sun, the reggae music, the luscious greenery of the mountains and valleys, the brightly colored flowers, the bare skinned people brushing up against me.

My body can’t help it: it is swaying slowly, rhythmically. It is liquid in its movements, gliding up and down and side to side. The music travels through my whole body like a river. Nowhere for it to escape, it just keeps swishing from one end to the other. My neck is a swing, lolling from shoulder to shoulder. I tilt my head back, exposing my throat. I close my eyes and let inertia, gravity, this place, flow through me however it wants. I’ve refilled this river so many times and it never overfills. It is never enough and it never runs dry.

Dry – no, it is never dry here, but it is never wet, either. There is no rain. Only mist - sometimes. It keeps us cool when we need it; it keeps the green leaves glistening. The ocean is always – always in sight, always in the air, always swooshing in the background as if someone is holding a seashell right up to my ear, just for me.

The drinks, they are bottomless. My hand is never empty unless it wants to be. My throat is never dry. Pink, orange, yellow, blue, all of the colors coat my lips, swim up my straw and spark a rainbow across my tongue. It is creamy and tart and citrus and bitter, but I am never dizzy. And there is no one to tell me it’s too much, because it never is.

The people, they are all smiling. Together, we move in sync with one another. They love how my body moves and I, theirs. We are bare and sweaty and warm. Our sweat glints in the light of the sun and smells like coconuts and shea butter. Our toes are the sand. We are like the leaves of the palm trees around us: we brush against each other, and our skin feels like stars holding hands – bright, fiery, sexy. We don’t say sorry. We don’t have to. We just keep swaying.

The singer, his voice is sultry, intoxicated by sunshine: It’s summertime baby, be my summertime baby.

This place is our summertime baby. It is perfect. There is nothing to worry about here. And I never, ever want to leave…

*

“And you go to this place often?” Dr. Schnell’s voice is low, but not sultry. Curious, but nonjudgmental.

I open my eyes, and I see the ceiling first. The air leaves me as if it is the last time.

In Dr. Schnell’s four walled beige room, my neck is a dead weight, anchored into the lumpy, puke-green couch cushion. There are panorama stock photos of beach scenes on the walls, and there is one indoor palm tree-like plant, but it’s plastic, evident by its dirt-less vessel. I feel my hands turn from their loose, palm-up, relaxed position into a tight grip around my knees.

I am sitting, but it is more like surviving.

“Uh, yeah. I guess so,” I say. My knee involuntarily starts to bounce.

“It sounds like a really beautiful place,” Dr. Schnell offers a closed lip smile.

“It’s my happy place,” I laugh nervously.

His smile deepens, lips remaining closed. He shifts in his chair, switching the leg that crosses over the other. He picks up the pen on his notebook, and then puts it back down without writing anything. He clears his throat, then he opens his mouth, the cusp of a word on his tongue, but he swallows it. He closes his mouth, sighing and smiling. Now, he’s silent and smiling. And staring. I hate when he does this.

“What?” I huff, crossing my arms over my chest.

“Well, I just have to wonder, Abby…is this place really your happy place?”

I furrow my brows. “What do you mean?”

He shifts again, letting out air. He’s treading lightly, doesn’t want to go where he’s going. I’m not sure I want him to either, but I have to know.

“Just say it.”

“Abby, how long have we been seeing each other?”

It seems like a question he should have the answer to, but it’s one I know, so I give it: “About two years.”

Dr. Schnell nods. “And do you remember why you reached out to me? What you sought treatment for?”

Another answer he of all people should know. I shrug my shoulders. “For my social anxiety.”

He nods again. “That’s right. And you’ve made pretty great strides over the years, wouldn’t you say? You’ve got a few new friends with whom you’ve developed wonderful and reciprocal relationships with. You’re putting yourself out there at work and you’re no longer feeling ostracized among your co-workers. You’ve really worked hard to overcome your anxiety. I think you should be really proud of that, don’t you?”

I straighten, offering a half smile. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“You’ve done so well, in fact, that I am wondering if perhaps, it’s no longer an issue for you anymore, this social anxiety?” Dr. Schnell’s eyes are edgy in their gaze, as if he’s hoping I’ll get to what he’s hinting at on my own. I don’t.

“So, you’re saying I’m cured?”

I hear the click of his tongue when his mouth pops open. His head tilts to one side. “Not exactly…”

“I’m not following…”

Dr. Schnell shifts again. This time, he picks up his notebook and pen and places it on the small table on the side of his chair. Then, he leans forward, resting his elbows on the tops of his knees. “Abby, this place of yours, this happy place that you’ve created in your mind…well, I’m beginning to wonder if it’s some sort of defense mechanism, an avoidance strategy, perhaps… You seem to be going there as a sort of escape from, well, life.”

I scoff, and then I huff. And then I scoff again. “No, I don’t.”

“Abby – “

“That’s not – I’m not escaping. That’s just my happy place. What? A person can’t have a day dream? A goal for their life?”

“Your goal for your life is to be intoxicated on a tropical beach, dancing with strangers?”

“Isn’t that everyone’s?” I counter.

He bites his lip, his head twitches slightly. He knows I’m right. “And where is the growth there, Abby?”

Confusion crinkles across my face. “Growth? What does that have to do with anything?”

Dr. Schnell leans back in his chair, recrosses his legs, removes his glasses. Glasses off means we’re in for a serious one. He sighs. I gulp. I didn’t realize how sweaty my hands were getting. “When was the last time you wrote anything, Abby?”

My entire body deflates and tenses at the same time. My heartrate excels. Flashes of bright white computer screens make my hands tremble. And like a Pavlovian dog, I hear faded reggae music somewhere in the distance, feel warm sand between my toes.

“Abby, I’m beginning to wonder if maybe you didn’t come to me for social anxiety at all. Heck, in your happy place, you’ve surrounded yourself with people!” He laughs, but it sounds like how I feel: nervous. His job seems hard. “When we met two years ago, you mentioned that you’re a writer, Abby, that you wanted to write a book?” Dr. Schnell pauses to meet my gaze. I catch it for a brief moment, then look away. “But every time I try to bring it up – how your writing is going – you seem to get pretty,” he considers the right word for a moment. “ – closed off. And I’m wondering why that is? Can we talk about that today?”

*

When I get home, I decide I hate Dr. Schnell. How dare he. How dare he assume that I am afraid to grow. How dare he accuse me of intentionally plateauing, accusing me of creating a safe space in my mind so I don’t have to face the real world. He said he thinks I am avoiding finishing my book because I’m too scared of what happens next. What the hell does he know? I hate him.

I plop on my bed and pull out my phone. I put on some pop music. I need something to calm me down. I close my eyes, and the sun is warm on my skin. I feel it move through my whole body, hear the ocean crashing, smell the coconuts and the flowers, crave the liquid rainbow…It is perfect here, nothing to worry about. I never want to leave…

Why haven’t you been writing?

A darkness falls over me. A bitter, cold silence, the only drum is the one thrumming in my chest. This was never here. I never allowed it.

God damnit, Dr. Schnell.

I turn off the music, and I grab my computer. The flashing black line taunts me, the way it always does. I want to throw it across the floor. I want to crack open the beer in my fridge. I want to fly across the ocean and hide on a beach.

My fingers find the keys, and for a moment – such a brief moment – it feels like legs finding the pedals of a bike. I think of scraped knees. I don’t know how to start. I don’t want to bleed. This used to be my favorite part, the first line, but now it feels like flying over the handlebars.

I close my eyes, exhale my expectations. I hit one key, then press another. I hear them make their sounds, slowly at first, and then it picks up. It’s rhythmic, like music, like a river. I am writing, but it is more like dancing.

This place isn’t perfect. There is plenty to worry about here. But strangely, I never, ever want to leave…