Free Drawn to Life by Elisabeth Wagner Page A

stuff?” She sounded annoyed.
    It wasn’t what I had hoped for, but she had a point.
    I scratched the back of my head. “Look, as I said, I’m really sorry. Your book was on the floor in the aisle. I didn’t want anybody to step on it. I wanted to give it to you. Then I looked at that drawing. I was fascinated and began to leaf through it.” I looked at her apologetically. “It won’t happen again.”
    She blinked again and whispered, “OK.” That was all.

Chapter 10 ½
    Mia—Nothing Is OK
    Graz, December 2011
    No, I was not OK. Nothing was OK. Everything sucked. Everything made me want to throw up. And throw up I did, constantly.
    I wanted to pull my hair, which I would have, had there been any left to pull. I wanted to scream so loudly that the whole world shattered.
    Anxiously, I looked around the room. I scratched the scar on my arm. The pain reminded me that I was still here.
    I heard the soothing voice of Dr. Weiß. “I’m here, Mia. And so are you. Everything is OK.” I stared into his eyes, without focusing. “Breathe evenly, like we practiced.”
    I looked to the side. With the exception of my fingers still scratching where I’d cut myself, I didn’t move. I couldn’t do what he wanted. My head felt as if it would explode any minute. I sensed an oncoming panic attack. I was panting. My body had stiffened. I couldn’t control the spasms in my muscles, which just about knocked me out. So much for everything is OK .
    I’m not well. How can anyone deal with a situation like this? No, no, I’m not well. Nothing is OK.
    I will be OK, though. Just not today or even tomorrow. One day, though . . . Maybe.
    “Mia, listen to me.” I stared at my therapist. “Relax your hands. Leave the scars alone. Breathe calmly. Inhale and exhale.” He raised his arms to signal when I needed to inhale, and lowered them when he wanted me to exhale. My heart rate slowed. I stopped scratching. Dr. Weiß motioned for me to flex my fingers.
    “Just do as I do. Don’t forget to breathe.”
    I took in mouthfuls of air, normally and slowly. The feeling I was going to explode any minute finally vanished.
    He smiled. “You’re doing great.”
    I smiled wearily. Doing great. I shouldn’t be needing to do this at all.
    “What happened? Where were you?”
    My expression darkened immediately. I didn’t want to remember the trigger for my reactions. It would propel me back to my previous state. I wasn’t ready to discuss what set me off. I needed to know how to prevent the spasms, that’s all. I squirmed, nervously tapping my foot and worrying my lower lip.
    “Mia,” I heard Dr. Weiß’s voice. “Breathe. You can do it. Tell me what led you to panic. Breathe evenly. You can do it,” he said again.
    I can do it.
    Hoarsely, I said, “I—I—”
    “Keep breathing,” my therapist repeated.
    “It’s the . . . the question.” I inhaled and exhaled and paused. I needed to maintain my control. Otherwise, I would suffer another attack. Dr. Weiß sat in his leather chair and waited.
    “It’s the OK , the saying OK ,” I said quickly. Done. It was out, and I was still there. No panic attack.
    “Very good, Mia. I knew you could do it.” He leaned forward, his elbows propped on his knees. “And now I’d like to know why that’s the case.”
    “Why . . . ?” I squeezed all the air from my lungs. “How often can you hear a phrase before you feel you need to puke? Can you stand to hear it every day? Several times a day? I can’t,” I said quietly.
    He looked at me and frowned. “How do you mean?”
    “Nothing is OK. OK? ” My voice grew louder. “Every day, I hear everything’s OK, everything’s fine. Nothing is fine. Nothing will ever be fine. For god’s sake, don’t you ever look at me? Look at me! What’s OK about me? Skinny, hollow cheeks, almost no hair. My body is a shell,” I yelled at him, then added, barely audible, “an empty shell.”
    He nodded. “You are a strong person. Believe me