I don’t want to be afraid.

So, when Mira tells me softly, reassuringly, that “one more session, and the results will come,” I hate that I’m afraid she might be wrong. I hate that I feel like this isn’t working.

At the same time, though, I can’t ignore her. A part of me simply believes her, or perhaps more accurately, it simply… believes.

She says it with such utter confidence. That’s the part that does me in.

Mira Temple, doctor and hypnotherapist, regal queen of her domain, a woman that seems to radiate intelligence with every breath… a voice so husky and so deep… how could a silly girl, a snivelling bundle of insecurities like me, not listen to that voice?

I try to summon the energy to voice my doubts. Suggest that maybe we should change approach, or… something… but my lips tremble, my throat contracts helplessly, and the words die before they can even be formed.

I trust Mira to help me overcome my selfishness, my timidity, and fear of flying.

I trust Mira. I trust Mira to…

Overcome…

I need to trust Mira. I need to come back next week. And the next, the next, the next, the next…

Until the job is done. That is all. One step, and then another, and eventually, the destination is reached. Three goals. One at a time, yes. I trust Mira.

“One more thing before you go,” she says, a smile playing at the corner of her lips. “An exercise for our next session. Take pen and paper, and write down any things you encounter that make you feel afraid, that are not flying.”

That breaks me out of my reflective stupor. “Why?” I ask, confused. Is there an underlying pattern to this? Is my fear of flying not just about flying? Is Mira suggesting that I’m generally fearful? A scared, little girl… needing someone strong to take care of…

“We need to understand what triggers certain thoughts, certain emotions,” Mira says, in a voice that seems to hold so much thought into it. Like every word has been weighed for centuries. “Your fear of flying may not be an isolated phobia. You may be afraid of confrontation, or social situations, or, say, spiders, or maybe even women.”

I blink, stupefied, incomprehending. “Women?” I ask, my voice shaky. “What’s that got to do with… why would I be afraid of women?”

Mira shrugs, so casually, so nonchalantly, that I feel immediately reassured. Almost sedated. “I’ve seen everything in my profession, trust me.”

I laugh, even though I’m not sure that’s the appropriate response to what Mira’s just said. It feels like such an annoying laughter, too, grating and dumb, but Mira seems to approve. Her eyes glimmer.

“Society teaches women to be demure,” Mira says, her smile widening into a grin. “But women can also be strong, women can fight. And sometimes, a strong, combative woman will be very intimidating to a woman who still lives in fear.”

I nod along, though I’m not sure I’m following her reasoning. I mean, I guess… there’s plenty of girls that have internalised misogyny, or try to tear each other down, but I’m not one of them, so…

But I need to trust Mira. Her words envelop me like a warm blanket, as she says, “It can be very daunting, for a fragile girl, to be in the presence of a woman who’s overcome this conditioning.”

Overcome.

It’s such a beautiful word. It’s perfect, a semantic crucible of overwhelming power, a power that rises like the tide, sweeping away all opposition. Overwhelming it.

“Just trust me,” Mira says, flashing that impossible smile. Every subtle movement of her body is a perfect exercise in non-verbal communication, every word rolls off her tongue like it’s the product of enormous wisdom, accumulated over time scales that make no sense.

I trust her. In spite of myself, I believe every word. I’ll write down what makes me feel afraid. Women. I’ll be writing about women… for Mira.

To overcome my…

“See you next week!” she says jovially, and I find myself stepping over the threshold, sleepwalking down the hallway and towards the exit, as if I’m lost in some kind of lucid dream.

***

Every step I take feels heavier, the rhythmic clack clack of my heels against the cobblestone streets echoing like a metronome. The world feels so dull and soundless, without Mira’s voice.

I’ve always enjoyed people-watching, but now… I seem to only be noticing women, and with a blush, I have to admit that Mira was right. They do scare me.

They just look so… put together. Women in power suits, women in leather jackets and jeans and boots, women who are happy mothers, or happy to be with other women, or to be on their own. Women jogging or heading to the gym, and elegantly dressed for an evening out on the town.

Next to them, I look just like… a girl. Someone of lower status and stature, unimpressive, middling, mediocre… or worse. Someone they could accidentally stomp underfoot, if I don’t get out of their way.

I’m in awe of Mira. She was so right. I would have never made the connection if she hadn’t pointed it out, and that only begs the question… what else am I afraid of, without even realising it?

Although, I suppose there is at least one obvious answer to that. Because it may be true that I fear women in general…

But the more I think about it, the more I can’t deny that I fear Mira most of all.

***

I don’t want to be selfish.

It pains me to admit that Mira was right. That’s so stupid, isn’t it? Who in their right mind has an issue with their therapist correctly guessing something? I really am such a stupid girl.

Simple. Inadequate.

It’s so selfish of me, to want to deny the truth of Mira’s intuition. A selfless girl would admit it openly. She would tell her therapist that she is terrified to be a lesser member of her own gender, the lowest of womankind.

The words just won’t come, but Mira doesn’t seem to be bothered by it. Her voice lulls me, like the faraway sound of thunder when you’re warm and safe in bed, under the blankets..

"I was right."

She has such a way to put weight into her words. It’s not a question, it’s a statement, delivered with such confidence, with an air of such profound knowledge, that it makes me sort of feel… funny… and a little bit flustered, even.

Can it really be Tuesday again? The days have started to meld into a seamless loop of sameness, each marked by the pull of Mira's office. I’m like a planet, drawn into the orbit of a luminous, splendorous star…

I swallow hard, trying to summon the words. "Mira... you were right. It's unsettling, but I am, in fact, afraid of women."

A slow, knowing smile creeps onto Mira's face. "It’s really not as complex or outlandish as it might first appear."

“It isn’t?” I ask, unable to hide my scepticism, even though guilt instantly stings me for it. Selfish, so selfish to sound sceptical to my therapist, she’s only trying to help me.

“Not at all,” Mira says. “You see women, unafraid. You feel like you don’t belong to them. You feel like you don’t measure up.”

I squirm in my chair, feeling small and helpless under her piercing gaze, squealing softly like a trapped mouse.

That makes Mira’s eyes shine with a deeply attentive, curious light.

“It will take time for you to feel like you’re one of those women,” she says, “one of us strong women who have overcome our limitations.”

She’s put herself in that category, I notice, and why not? She’s a goddess.

“In the meantime, though, perhaps you could ameliorate your fear, by working on your selfishness.”

I stare at her for a long moment, trying to piece together the meaning of what she’s just said, but my brain feels so sluggish. What? Fear… selfishness… what’s the connection?

“How does that work?” I ask, feebly, and Mira gives me a look of pitiful condescension.

“Well, obviously,” she says, “you would feel less inadequate, if you felt like you were making yourself useful to women. If you put their needs ahead of your own… becoming a positive presence in their life. Giving you the feeling that you belong around them.”

Of course. Naturally. It makes perfect sense. If I stop being selfish, I’ll stop being afraid of my inadequacy, and then I can focus on my fear of flying, on the true obstacle standing between me, and a romantic week with Mark in Paris.

Huh, funny. I feel like Mira and I haven’t talked about flying in a long time…

“Like I tell all my patients, perhaps we can all fight,” Mira says. “And your fight begins by no longer fearing women. You have nothing to be afraid from women that benefit having you around, Zara. Be of use, and they will see no need to crush you.”

Be of use.

Crush me.

Would Mira crush me? I’m paying her, I’m her client, I’m contributing to her well-being. I shouldn’t be afraid of Mira. Even though she looks so much stronger, smarter, and more beautiful than I’ll ever hope to be…

Even though I melt a little as her gaze holds mine, for an interminable, silent heartbeat. "Trust me to overcome. Just one more session, and everything will fall into place."

I nod my shaky, uncertain, timid assent.

And then, as always, the hypnosis begins.

Mira's voice is the only sound in the room. The only sound I need. "Close your eyes, and take a deep breath," she says. I drop like a stone, taken in by her words, so wise, so powerful, so immanent. It feels like I’m talking to a goddess.

"Relax your muscles,” she says, following her usual script, “from your toes, and all the way up to your scalp. Imagine a warm, comforting light washing over you, relaxing you more and more with each passing moment."

I’ve heard it all before, and I don’t even need to think about it anymore. My body follows her instructions on autopilot, which makes me feel good, safe, protected, looked after. And a little bit…

Controlled.

It’s a good feeling. The slackening of tension, the way her words seem to stretch on and on, without beginning, without end; there is no time and space in this liminal place, between wake and sleep. A place I didn’t even know the mind could inhabit, until Mira showed it to me.

"Sink for me, Zara," Mira says, her voice barely above a whisper now. “So good and responsive.”

I glow with her praise, with her approval. And I await the words that I know will slowly, inexorably take root inside my subconscious.

"Today, Zara, we're going to explore deeper. Peel back the layers and uncover the core of your fears. We’re going to determine how you can be of use. So that you are not crushed."

I nod, my voice trapped in my throat, unable to speak.

Mira’s voice cradles me. "Have you ever felt submissive towards another woman, Zara? Have you ever felt the need to serve, to be completely under their command?”

I would squirm in my seat, if the trance didn’t make it impossible. The question feels intimate, invasive. Yet, the very idea sends a curious thrill down my spine. The images that dance in my mind are vivid: serving a woman, bowing to her, following her every command.

"Yes," I admit, my voice barely above a whisper.

Mira's smile is enigmatic, her eyes never leaving mine. "And how does that make you feel? Powerless? Or useful?”

The words tangle in my mind. Powerless and useful don’t seem like antonyms. Couldn’t I be both? Powerless and useful?

Mira continues. "It's a beautiful dynamic, Zara. Women have to stick together. When you offer a woman your service, you’ll gain her protection in turn. She’ll be your liege. Sure, some may say this is an unequal relationship, but that’s not true, it’s about giving and taking in equal measure."

She smiles. “You give, and she takes. And among the things she’ll take, there will be your fear. And you’ll be free to be your true self.”

The weight of her words settles over me. By the time the session ends, my mind is a whirlwind of emotions. I feel raw, exposed.

"I want you to picture yourself at a gathering of women. You're scurrying around, being very helpful, seeing what they want, tending to their needs. They smile at you. They’re happy you’re there."

As she speaks, I can see the image in my mind's eye. The women in the ballroom are all dressed in regal fineries, while I look like a mere waitress, simple and unadorned in my servility. I’m carrying a tray, or fetching things, or… dusting…

The women are happy I’m there.

"Now, I want you to repeat after me," Mira says. "I should be of use. It makes women happy. Happy women will not crush me."

I repeat the words back to her, feeling safer by the second.

“And three,” Mira says, but my eyes don’t dart open, like they used to. Instead, I wake up as if from a long, deep slumber, rubbing my eyes in confusion. My mind is foggy, and slow. It feels like the image of the ballroom is not receding as it should, I see it in my mind’s eye, every time I close my eyelids.

Like an afterimage, seared into my retinas.

I struggle to get up, unsteady, my gait shifting, but Mira doesn’t seem perturbed by my state of confusion. She merely reclines in her chair, extending her legs and placing her booted feet atop her desk. "Leave the money next to my boots," she commands.

Huh. Why did I just think about it like that? Command?

I approach, my movements hesitant. The leather of her boots gleams under the dim light, a stark contrast to the wooden surface of the desk. As I lean down to place the money next to them, I feel a strange compulsion.

I want to lean down closer. I want to breathe in the scent of the leather. I want to kiss my therapist’s boots.

That would be a fundamentally selfless act, wouldn’t it? It would be a way for me to beg her not to crush me, wouldn’t it?

This is madness. I should just leave the money and go. And I do drop the notes, carefully placing them by Mira’s glorious, imposing boots… and by the time I stand back up, I see her leering at me, amused and seemingly very pleased with herself.

“See, Zara?” She says. “You’ve just made yourself useful. Doesn’t it feel better?”

She retracts her legs below the desk, leaning forward, fixing me in place with her clever, green eyes.

“Doesn’t it feel good to know that I’m not going to crush you, this time?”

I gulp. I don’t want to be afraid. I don’t want to be selfish. I don’t want her to crush me, I want to be of use… to the better woman. The woman who’s overcome.

I nod. Because it feels so good…