Every Wednesday and Friday at 3 P.M., I made the journey to the campus health center where I met with my shrink. These trips were a relatively new part of my weekly routine, brought on by the massive panic attack that I had during one of my finals in the spring.

As it so happened, all semester long, I'd sat in the third seat of the third row in our class' lecture hall. People respected that I always sat there, too. Even on the days that I was late, sure enough, my seat would be open and waiting for me. Call me a creature of habit -- or, superstitious, maybe -- but when I arrived to take my exam and saw some scrawny kid named Patrick settled into the third seat of the third row, I totally lost it. I didn't say anything to him, of course; I didn't want people to think that I was a freak. But, as the professor began passing out the tests, all I could do was stare at the back of Patrick's head and curse his very existence.

Then, I started thinking that maybe he was messing with me on purpose. I'd given him some grief earlier in the semester for always wearing a bow tie to class --and maybe it hadn't been my finest moment when I made fun of the purple rolling backpack that he dragged around campus -- but I hadn't meant any harm. I'd always been joking, just teasing him a bit. I mean, hell, we were in college; hadn't everyone been ripped on at one point or another for being a little weird?

It was downhill from there, though. The more I thought about Patrick and his beady eyes, the more paranoid I became that he had a vendetta against me. He'd smiled when I walked past him to sit down -- was that his way of letting me know that he'd won some sort of imaginary war between us? By the time I finally stopped worrying about my stolen seat and looked up at the clock, nearly half of the ninety minute exam was over. Shit, I thought, opening my response booklet for the first time and uncapping my pen.

Tapping the ball point against my desk, it took me a moment to realize that I had no idea what any of the essay prompts said. It wasn't like I hadn't studied -- I really had... Not that my parents would believe me if I bombed the test. As the letters on the page began to spin in front of me, I heard Dad's voice chanting in my head, "Why can't you be more like Michael?"

The words on the exam sheet began to take on a life of their own, spelling out failurefailurefailure. Sweat coursed down my neck, pooling above the waistband on my jeans. I tried to swallow but I couldn't; the giant ball of nerves in my throat kept growing as I suffocated on my fear. Panting as I desperately tried to fill my lungs, I began imagining myself lying dead on the ground while Patrick stood laughing over my corpse. With that image burning into my mind, the tips of my fingers went numb and the ringing in my ears grew to a brain splitting crescendo. For a moment, I thought death might actually be preferable to the pain that I was in and I knew -- I just knew -- that I needed to get out of that room if I wanted to survive.

Tripping over myself and wiping my brow on my sweat stained sleeve, I fumbled to grab my skateboard as I hurried to the front of the room with my blank exam book in hand. The world was closing in on me and darkness rimmed the edge of my vision. I was in a tunnel, a narrowing tunnel, and my professor stood at the end. If I was dying, would he be the last person that I saw? I could feel Patrick's eyes on me as I passed him and I turned my head to meet his gaze. He was too fast for me; by the time I looked, his head was lowered again, inches from his desktop, as he pretended that he hadn't been firing daggers in my direction.

Cowardly little prick.

My body refused to cooperate and with each step that I took, my legs turned from Jell-o to lead, and then back again. I wobbled up to the collection tray, gulping for air and wondering when the last time was that I'd told my mom I loved her... Dad, too, I guess, even Michael. Would Michael take time off from work to go to my funeral? That thought sent my mind into another spiral of racing images and as I turned in my final and prepared to run, I almost didn't hear my professor say, "Hold on a minute, Scott."

I froze, my panic continuing to mount. I wanted to tell him that I was dying, that I needed to get out, to escape. Didn't he care? Did he want me to die? To his credit, however, my professor gave me one look, picked up the test I'd turned in, and, after flipping through the blank pages, motioned at his T.A. to take over his job of proctoring the exam. "I'll walk with you to the health center," he said, leading me out the door by my elbow before I could protest.

Even now, I couldn't remember how I'd made it from the business school to a quiet room inside the campus clinic where a nurse took my vitals. What I did remember was the stabbing, wrenching pain that gripped my chest each time I tried to breathe. I remembered the way the world spun, in and out, up and down, and how I gripped the edges of the bed in a desperate attempt to make it stop. I remembered being told to lie down and curling up into a ball, embarrassed and alone. I'm such a loser, I thought to myself, over and over again.

When I finally regained some semblance of control, a frizzy haired woman stood peering at me while jotting down notes on a clipboard. "Who are you?" I asked, needles tingling in my feet as I felt another urge to flee.

"Dr. Fersan," the woman replied, studying my face for signs of... Something.

"Am I dying?" I rubbed my chest, though the ache in my heart and lungs had faded considerably since I'd arrived. Maybe I'd make it through, after all.

Dr. Fersan shook her head. "You'll be alright," she assured me, and then proceeded to ask me a series of questions.

"Do you drink?"

"Well, yeah, but I'm legal."

"How much?"

"I don't know," I said honestly. "A normal amount, I guess?"

Fersan's eyebrows furrowed. "Do you smoke?"

"No."

"Do you use prescription or recreational drugs?"

"I mean, I might take an Advil if I have a headache or whatever, but other than that..."

"So, no?"

"No."

"Have you ever had a panic attack before?"

"What?"

Dr. Fersan stopped scribbling and studied me through sympathetic eyes. "Is that also a 'no'?"

"No, I haven't."

"I see."

The line of questioning shifted, with Fersan's expression continuing to soften as she asked me how often I felt anxious or upset about something going on in my life. When I said, "Every single day," I'd expected her to laugh but she hadn't. Maybe she'd known that I wasn't really joking. She asked me if I was worried about school -- yes -- and if that worry interfered with my ability to complete assignments or focus in class.

"A couple years ago, my doctor back home thought I might have A.D.H.D.," I said, almost hoping that confiding that in her would yield a prescription for the same medication that most of my friends used during finals.

"Maybe," Dr. Fersan conceded. "But has anyone ever suggested that you might suffer from generalized anxiety disorder?"

The suggestion provoked a strangely hostile reaction in me. I couldn't explain it, but it pissed me off that she thought I was some sort of weirdo who couldn't cope with life. Still feeling slightly woozy, I shook my head and tried to get to my feet. Dr. Fersan reached out to steady me.

"Are you alright? Do you need something?" she asked.

Her kindhearted bedside manner was really beginning to annoy me. "I'm fine," I said, the words clipped. "I'm just having a bad day, that's all. I don't have anxiety."

"Well, maybe not, but your responses to the questions that I asked suggest that there might be something going on." Her gaze danced around my face probingly, looking for a sign of weakness that she could grasp on to. I hardened my expression. There was no way that I was going to let her get into my head. Fersan continued, "Something that you might want to talk about but feel like you can't."

"It's college. You know, everything is stressful -- everyone is stressed. I don't know a single person who isn't worried about school." I swallowed. "I'm not the only one."

"You're right," Dr. Fersan said, nodding. "I suspect that much of what you're feeling is incredibly widespread among people your age."

"No, I mean, there's nothing wrong with me. I have friends--"

"Are you afraid they wouldn't understand what you're going through?"

"I'm not going through anything," I exclaimed, throwing my hands up with frustration.

Pursing her lips together, Dr. Fersan gave a small shrug and walked to the door. "Well, alright. In that case, I'll tell the nurse who was taking care of you that you're not interested in receiving any psychological services."

Damn right, I'm not.

"However," Dr. Fersan said, her voice taking on a steely edge that made something in my spine tingle, "if you change your mind before you leave, please let one of the ladies at the front desk know on your way out."

"I won't--"

She continued, speaking over my protests, "I'm just concerned that this attack might have a negative effect on your remaining finals, especially because -- assuming my suspicions are correct -- it sounds like your anxiety is being poorly controlled at the moment." She paused to let that sink in. "I'm not sure if you're aware of this, Scott, but if a student is receiving treatment for anything that might benefit from alternative testing conditions, I'm authorized to recommend that the university make accommodations."

That piqued my interest. "What do you mean?"

"Well, for students with anxiety, I typically suggest that they're allowed to take their exams in separate testing rooms and many even receive additional time on their tests."

I shifted uncomfortably. "Aren't those accommodations for, like..." The cautioning look on Dr. Fersan's face made me regret saying anything. I swallowed. There was no way to avoid sounding like an ass now. "You know, uh, special people?"

Dr. Fersan tilted her head while she appraised me. "The accommodations that the university offers are meant to level the playing field for students who might otherwise be at a disadvantage through no fault of their own. If you don't think the strategies that I've suggested would be beneficial, then you're in no way obligated to rely on them."

She opened the door to leave, and although my pride urged me to stay quiet, I found myself asking, "So, basically, you'll write me some sort of hall pass for my finals, but only if I agree to meet with you?"

Fersan's face brightened as she turned around again. "I suppose that's one way to look at it, yes. Also, if I'm able to determine that you'd benefit from permanent accommodations, I'd be happy to put that that recommendation forward, too."

And that's how I wound up seeing the campus psychologist.

"How are you doing today, Scott?" Dr. Fersan asked as I strolled into her office and sat down on an oversized leather chair. Her fingers reached up to tuck strands of unruly waves behind her ears.

Slightly bug-eyed and no taller than an imp, seeing Dr. Fersan, or Fersie-Ferz as I often thought of her in my head, had become one of the highlights in my schedule. Although I'd resisted it at first, the truth was that it was actually pretty nice to talk to someone about things -- things my friends probably wouldn't understand. Most people assumed that because I smiled a lot, that meant I was always happy. But that wasn't true. It wasn't true at all, and Dr. Fersan assured me that was okay.

Maybe it wasn't manly to admit it, but each time I left Fersan's office, I felt like a giant weight had been lifted from my shoulders. In fact, it had been my idea to bump our sessions up to twice a week after Gemma and I broke up in June -- not that I'd admitted that to Fersie, of course, but I'm sure she probably figured it out on her own. She didn't miss much.

"I'm alright," I said, knowing that answer wouldn't satisfy her. Sure enough, she sat with her eyebrows raised, waiting for me to go on. "Uh, I mean, Gemma and I are talking again, or whatever."

Fersie's eyebrows crept further upwards, betraying only the slightest hint of surprise. There was something in her expression that told me, deep down at least, she didn't fully approve. "Oh?"

"Yeah, it's... I don't know, it's not really serious yet or anything. We hooked--we hung out the other day and it was fine."

Dr. Fersan nodded, jotting something down in her notes. She looked up to hold my gaze. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but I recall you mentioning last month that you were interested in dating new girls this year. Is that still something you're considering?"

Sinking further into my seat, I brought my shoulders to my ears. Had I really said that? "I mean, it's Gemma, you know?"

Fersie shook her head. "Do you think you could explain what you mean?"

I groaned, unable to put my thoughts into words -- into words that made any sense, that is. "Look, I know she's not perfect."

"No one is."

"But," I went on, bouncing my leg up and down, "she's... I mean, I know her. And she knows me. There aren't any surprises in our relationship and I like that."

"So, would you say that you're attracted to the familiarity she brings?"

It was the same sort of question that my parents always needled me with and I frowned. "It's more than that, I... I like being with her." I bowed my head, embarrassed by what I was about to say next. "Even though things can be bad between us at times, I still feel like I'd have to meet someone really amazing -- beyond amazing, actually -- for me to stop trying to make things work with her."

Dr. Fersan had been writing while I spoke but she lowered her pen and smiled at me. It was a small and knowing smile, and for a moment, she kind of reminded me of my mom. "So, if you met a girl who satisfied that criteria, do you think you'd be open to pursuing a relationship with her? Assuming you and Gemma weren't together, of course."

"Absolutely," I said, but from the hint of concern in Fersie's eyes, I knew that she was about as convinced as I felt.

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A/N: Thank you for reading! Comments and votes are always appreciated if you enjoyed the chapter. :)