Breath

Fight or flight, my therapist tells me. That root impulse. Cellular tug. But now, she asks, how often are you really in danger? Is your reaction in balance with the circumstance? I must admit, hardly ever. The driver who cut me off…the jerk downtown who won’t take my order at the bar…they are not my enemies. Though I want to wrap my hands around his neck. Want to slam my car into the back of his sedan. Yell Fuck You or throw a punch. And the hot flashes of shame and self-loathing? What of those? Where do I go then? She asks, Where are you in my body? Can you feel your feet? I am unable to answer, too busy coaxing myself out of that Oak outside the window. Unable to differentiate branches and feelings. Can you follow your breath? I nod. I can do that. I walk a few steps in this way and, after a while, drop back down into my body—tired, sad, scared. Ok, I say. Return to my breath.