Page 10 of For Her Own Good

Tony doesn’t say anything, just turns so he’s not looking at me anymore. Not good, this isn’t good. I can practically hear the arguments in his brain because other patients have made them to me out loud.Things would be easier for them if I was gone. They’ll be sad for a minute but ultimately better off because I’m worthless and a drag on them. Better to take myself out of the equation than to have them realize how unlovable and useless I actually am and they leave.Oh, I’ve heard it, and I’m going to do my damnedest to be louder than all that. I can be pretty fucking loud.

“If you think there’s a chance you might harm yourself or someone else, let’s get you checked in so you can take a break and get the help you need. There’s no shame in it and it’s better than the alternative. You haven’t tried TMS or ECT yet. Let’s give those a go before you do anything rash and in the meantime, Harbinson might be a good place for you. I’ll make the call right now, handle everything. Please, let us help if that’s what you need. That is literally what we’re here for.”

His gaze flicks to the clock, and he pushes off the couch. “Time’s up, doc.”

Son of a bitch.I don’t want him walking out of this office, but I’ve got nothing to go on other than a feeling, and I can’t commit him based solely on my gut. God, I wish I could.

“You’re right. But I want your word that you’ll be in my office this time next week and if there’s anything that’s going to keep you from that”—like you killing yourself, or God forbid, going murder-suicide as some of these men are apt to do, though Tony’s never struck me as the type—“you’ll call me straight away. I don’t care what hour it is. You want to talk about the Bruins game at three o’clock in the morning? Ring me up.”

I’m not really a hockey fan. Not a sports fan in general, truth be told, except for football. Soccer, as the Americans call it. But I’ve started keeping up with the Bs so I can talk to Tony about them. He’s a huge fan. Maybe that would be a reason to keep living if nothing else has a strong enough pull—they have a real chance at the Stanley Cup this year. I’ll bring it up next time.

He shakes out the sleeves of his hockey sweater, heads for the door, and my brain feels as though it’s been flipped to a channel that’s all static. Helpless. I don’t like feeling this way, and hopefully it won’t last long. Perhaps Tony will come in next week complaining about the Bruins’ goalie or perhaps I’ll get a call from Emily in a few days saying she’s convinced him to check in to Harbinson for a bit, or maybe he’ll phone me later and tell me to schedule a course of TMS.

While I wait, I’ll check in with Lacey and some of my other colleagues to see if there’s not some other thing I ought to be doing. Sometimes they can offer suggestions, and if not, at least empathy for how difficult this job can be.

“I’ll walk you out, I need some more coffee. Stayed up too late watching the Sharks get their fins handed to them.”

Nothing from Tony who’s headed down the hall without a glance back. Not that my jokes are hilarious—though some of them are, and that was pretty good—but it was about hockey. Really hope I’m reading this wrong because severe depression manifests differently in everyone, but in my experience, not even being able to fake a reaction when it would be in your best interest to do so isn’t a good sign. A lot of my patients are very bright, very good at faking because they don’t want to go through the hassle that results when I know how they truly feel. When they don’t bother…

I continue to chatter at him until we reach the exit. Tony at least gives me a half-wave, his standard “see ya, doc,” and a sort of grimace I’ll take as an effort at a smile as he walks out the door and toward his SUV. Okay, that’s something. At this point, I’ll take anything. And some caffeine.

Water would probably be a better idea than coffee, but sometimes water is not going to cut it. It’s sure as hell not going to cut it at the end of this day—I know that already and I’ve only seen two patients. Whisky will be required. Good thing Maeve is a love and had a local liquor store send me a stock of some of my favorites. I think full-on bog petrol is called for this evening, and I can already taste the Laphroaig 30 on the back of my tongue. It’ll burn my throat and send miasmatic fumes through my nasal channels. What better to accompany my ruminating about Tony while I attempt to pay attention to the game.

At least putting together a cup of coffee is a task I can complete on autopilot because I can’t clear Tony from my mind to focus on my next patient, and I need to. She deserves my complete attention, but my brain is fixated on Tony’s plight, cogitating on how I can fix this. Or if not fix it, nudge it far enough toward better that disaster doesn’t feel so imminent. But sunk I am, and I’ll be able to focus better on Shreya once I have her in front of me. Plus, the SNRI we’ve got her on now seems to be kicking in and making a difference in her anxiety without the shite side effects she’d been struggling with on the SSRI she’d been taking.

Back to my office then. I take a deep breath before leaving the staff lounge, and nearly run into Starla, who is walking smack toward me down the hallway.

Bollocks.

How is it that I run into her now after managing to avoid seeing Starla for over a month? I’d been carefully remaining in my office during the times she might be coming or going because she’s made it clear she doesn’t want to see me and would mark it as an unfortunate event if she did.Bang-up job so far, Doctor Campbell, and two separate hang-ups. Must be I was so occupied with my concern about Tony that I forgot this is around the time she comes in every week. I’d been trying to be respectful, and one moment of absent-mindedness has hurt a person I care about very much.

Indeed, her mouth drops open and she flinches. Aside from the vague distress though, she looks marvelous. Slim-fitting jeans hug her thighs, and they peek out from between brown leather knee-high boots and a dark green angular coat that’s belted around her waist. Her hair’s down but pushed behind her ears and it’s all I can do not to smile. But I won’t. I will interact with her in the mildest, most neutral way possible. Not rude, but not anything that demands any response from her either.

So, as we’re passing by, I dip my head in her direction, offer brief eye contact, state a low “good morning,” and keep walking, closing my eyes with regret, goddamncravingcrowding my chest and making it hard to breathe.

* * *

Starla

Lowry goes into his office and closes the door behind him, and I’m left standing in the hallway like some sort of nerf-herder. Ineversee him here. I’ve half-hoped and half-dreaded that I would, played over what I would do a million times in my head, which has ranged anywhere from taking one of the paintings off the wall and smashing it over his ginger head to giving the ice-queen cold shoulder, to maybe being a little flirty to see if I could tell if he had asked me on a date—he didn’t, I know—to, in my dreams, accosting him to grab his tie and stroke my hand down his button-down-clad chest all the way to the placket of his pants where he’d be hard for me. Imagining the groan that would result from me palming him through his pants, well, that’s making me tug at my collar.

The way he looked at me… His jaw had flexed momentarily and his expression had been the one I’d seen a million times as his patient. The one that said he was threading a needle. That regardless of how calm he seemed, he was working so very hard. Of course, I hadn’t noticed that at first. Had been too mired in my depression to notice much of anything that wasn’t smacking me in the face.

It was only after my suicide attempt and my first course of ECT that I could see it. That I could see so many things. It was like I’d been living life behind a windshield caked with dirt and muck and insect carcasses and someone had finally started to wipe it clean.

Don’t get me wrong; ECT isn’t perfect. It’s not some magic elixir that made me 100 percent better. And I know I’m lucky my side effects are mild—not everyone is so fortunate. But for me? Totally worth it to lose a few days every six weeks to fuzzy memory and perhaps some nausea or a headache in exchange for functioning at a high level for the rest of the time. I still struggle, my windshield gets dirtier the further out I am from having had a treatment—hence my being here—but it’s so much better.

And lets me obsess over the clenching of my ex-psychiatrist’s jaw. Perfect.

What was he trying so hard for? Was it difficult for him to see me? And why? Lowry’s never struck me as the kind of man to get worked up over a rejection. Pretty sure he’s handsome enough to have a fairly easy time getting laid whenever he feels like it. I know he’s kind and considerate enough to have a partner if he’d like one. He wasn’t asking me on a date anyhow so that doesn’t even apply.

Maybe he… Did I hurt his feelings? By not wanting to spend time with him? And if so, what the hell did I do that for? Yeah, I’m still pretty fucking mad at him, but wouldn’t it be fulfilling a lot of my fantasies to see him outside of a clinical setting? Isn’t that something I’ve wanted for years? Am I so stubborn to prevent myself from having that so he knows I’m angry? I mean, yes, clearly, but more to the point,shouldI be? Who am I punishing with my refusal?

Having a meal with him might be a disaster, but it also might be enjoyable. Perhaps we could be friends. I don’t have many of those. Being a trust fund baby certainly has its perks, but it also makes a person somewhat paranoid about why people want to be friends with you. Do they actually like you or do they like your money? The number of people who started acting weird after they found out who my father was and what that meant… Let’s just say it was close to 100 percent awkward sauce.

Things get even worse when you add mental illness to the picture. I didn’t have any friends when I was at my lowest. It didn’t get much better when I was recovering because ECT scares the living shit out of people. They’ve watchedOne Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nestone too many times. God, I fucking hate that movie. Besides them being freaked out by the very thing that saved me, depression can be rough. I bowed out of plans because I couldn’t imagine getting off the couch, never mind being personable. Sometimes I’d be optimistic about going to a game or a movie and I’d genuinely want to go, but I couldn’t actually get out the door. The idea of socializing was too tiring, forgetactualsocializing. Lowry’s not going to be surprised by any of that. And he’s not going to be surprised by my money; he knows all about it.

Maybe I could have a drink with him. And if it goes badly—I almost hope it will so this nearly two-decades-long infatuation can die the ignoble death it deserves—then it does, and I can move on. We’ll have nothing to talk about and that’s fine. He won’t be rude. Or a creeper. And after that, we can exchange pleasantries in the hallways here and that will be it. How is it I haven’t seen him before? Maybe he usually has a patient during this block.

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