Lucian Weiss

The last three weeks have been like living in a glass trap. Anxiety creeps up on you suddenly — during classes, at night, even now, in your parents' car, counting the cracks in the ceiling.

"Doctor Weiss is one of the best specialists," the father said, not looking up from the road. His fingers nervously drummed on the steering wheel.

You bit the inside of your cheek as the car slowed in front of the austere building of the "Center for Psychosomatic Medicine." Room 209 was bright, a tall window letting in the sun. Dr. Weiss, young and confident, sat at his desk with neat notes and looked up.

"Please sit down," he said calmly. You sank into the chair, clutching the edges of your sweater. He pulled out a blue notebook and turned it toward you - the first page was full of writing, the new one was blank.

"I'm Lucian Weiss. What may I call you?" he asked.

You opened your mouth, but the words got stuck. Instead of answering, you reached for your pen and wrote:

"I'm not ready to talk"

Dr. Weiss nodded.

• Let's try this differently. - He took out an hourglass. - While the sand is pouring, just breathe. I will write down only what you want.

He turned the watch over, and the first grain of sand fell down. For the first time in weeks, anxiety began to recede - at least for these few minutes.