Resilient

When the client leaves his office crying, he knows he has done well.

"You must have been mortified."

"I was! I - " She swallows and her jaw clenches. Her eyes sweep the ground as she tries to find the words, "My mind went blank. I couldn't move. I couldn't believe what was happening. Everything just stopped." She makes a hand motion to emphasize her point, "And then, and then things started moving again but I couldn't. I thought if I did, it meant that it really happened and that it was real. It was a dream to me, it wasn't real. I didn't want it to be."

Client: Cindra Aberdeen
DOB: January 18, 1970
Diagnosis: Post-traumatic Stress Disorder and Dysthymia

"But it was certainly real. Your son is dead and you'll never see him again."

Her bottom lip slides from side to side; she can't say it.

At first, he did this for the money. Clients come back as long as they're distressed and that meant an ongoing source of income. He wasn't particularly in trouble money-wise but they graduate more and more R. Psychs. each year and few of the existing ones wanted to retire. It had been a matter of planning for the future and had no qualms about whose lives he ruined in order to do so.

But then it became fun. There was no remorse or guilt, only pleasure. It gave him an excitement that few other things did. It made his job far more interesting; gave it an extra coat of glitter and he made a lifestyle out of his job, one in which he happily embraced.

It was the feeling a surgeon gets when he holds a beating heart in his hand. And all of this was an adrenaline rush to him; the way the leather chair crunched when his clients squirmed, the way they clung harder onto him as he shaved away at them, the way their faces betrayed the invisible poison diffusing within, and in the fact that he alone controlled how quickly or slowly they descended into oblivion.

Within the walls of his office, he was God.

"Mrs. Aberdeen, your son his dead. It was so bad that there was barely anything left of him. You couldn't even lay your baby to rest properly. You survive only to brood upon it and let it eat away at you and the feeling will never go away."

Her hands find each other and they grip onto one another so hard that the veins on the back pop out. Her breathing is raspy and she looks like she's fighting a panic attack.

When he interviewed his clients, he would not do so from behind his desk. He wanted to be as close to them as possible with nothing between them for his clients to hide behind. They would believe he's personally investing in them; that he really cared about them. But really, he just wanted to be more effective. And be close enough to smell the deterioratiom.

"You can still smell it, can't you? I'll bet that stench of burnt asphalt and flesh will never get out of your mind."

She bends over and drops her head between her legs. She's gasping now, her hands clutching both knees to keep them from shaking so hard. She tries to say something but barely a whisper comes out.

"Speak up, I didn't catch that."

"I can't – I can't," She suddenly throws her head back and falls against the back of the chair. Her hand flies to her throat as she strains to inhale, "I'm, I – I feel numb!"

He watches as her eyes flutter close and her chest puffs in an out. Her legs stick out unusually straight from underneath her and he guesses that they're probably numb. He watches as her face pales and the hand at her throat slowly relaxes. Then, he lifts himself out of his chair and walks behind his desk. He takes his time in pulling out the paper bag from one of his draws, which he then calmly hands her.

"Here."

And he knows at this point she's not coherent enough to do it herself but he holds it out to her anyways. When there is no response, he closes the opening over her face and pinches her shoulder. She immediately slumps against him but is breathing regularly now. Eventually, he takes the bag away and sits back down.

He doodles on his pad of paper until she comes to. She's disoriented and furrows her brows as she tries to make sense of her surroundings, "W-what's happening?"

"You're in my office, Mrs. Aberdeen. And we were talking about your son when you… fell asleep," he says as he continues to doodle.

"Oh!" Her eyes are wide and alert and she sits up straight in her chair, smoothing out her clothes, "Doctor Ishtar, oh goodness, I'm so sorry! I hope I didn't embarrass myself or anything!"

"Not at all. Should we continue where we left off? Do you even know where we left off?"

"Hmm," She'd completely forgotten the conversation before her panic attack and scratches her jaw in an attempt to remember. He's amused by the irony of this but doesn't show it on his face. Instead, he distracts himself as she tries to figure things out for herself. It was one of the things about his work he that still annoyed him – the fact that some clients were just so damn slow.

"I'm sorry I don't remember," she eventually replies, looking sheepish, "I hope we didn't waste any time."

He glances at the antique hourglass on his desk, "That's fine. We're out of time for anyways," he stands and she follows suit, "I'll see you next time then, Mrs. Aberdeen," he says as he opens the door for her, "What day were you scheduled again?"

"The twenty-fourth I think," she smiles at him and takes his extended hand, "It was a nice talk, I think. Well, I'm sure it was," she gives a dry laugh as she takes her leave.

"See you then."

It wasn't not how he wanted his clients to leave but he knew she'd be back. Maybe he'd pushed her too hard this time, after all, if she hadn't panicked, she would have remembered everything and left feeling a lot more uneasy. At least now he knew better for next time.

With seven more minutes until his next appointment, he heads back to his office to sneak a drink. But his office administrator catches him as he passes her, "Dr. Ishtar," Her face is ashen and she hesitates before speaking, "Um, I got a call about Mr. Meron. He's…made a suicide attempt. I don't know if he's okay or not, they said they will call us back as soon as possible."

She's obviously very disturbed by this, which wasn't surprising since she'd only worked for him for a month. The turnover rate of his staff was very high (which also wasn't surprising) and this one was just like the many that came before her. They assumed it would be exciting to meet these people but it was always more of a mental strain than they realised. Especially when they worked for him.

He puts on a mask of concern, which felt as smooth as shoving a square peg into a round hole, "Oh, Bill Meron, yes, that client withheld a lot and never admitted to any suicidal ideation. It was hard to tell what was going on with this client, which was why I had to see him for such an extended period of time."

And by that he meant a year. For his bipolar clients, taking longer than six months to make a first suicide attempt meant they were quite resilient.

"Oh."

"These things… happen once in awhile," he continues with practiced gentleness, "Thankfully not too often, but they do happen. Please let me know when you hear back about Bill."

"Okay, I will." Her mood hasn't changed and it won't for the rest of the day, "There's no one else scheduled for today."

"Then I'll just work in my office for a bit before I go. Don't hesitate to ask if you need anything."

"I will. Thank you."

He heads for his desk as soon as the door closes behind him and pours himself a glass of whiskey from a bottle he kept hidden. It goes down nice and warm, the heat spreading wonderfully across his chest. A giggle bubbles up in his throat and he quietly lets it out. He flips his hourglass and slams it down, watching the trickling sand as he takes another sip. Beside it is a framed mandate of The College of Psychologists and on the far wall, directly in his line of sight, is his Ph.D. certification. He holds up the glass so that through the liquid, his certificate looks blurred and twisted,

"To mental health."

"She's late." His office admin, who happened to be a jumpy little thing, says, "I hope she remembered. I called to schedule the appointment over three weeks ago but," she bites the inside of her cheek, looking guilty, "I was in a rush yesterday so I forgot to give her a reminder call."

He looks at her but doesn't reply right away because he wants her to understand that he had little patience for mistakes. She starts to get uncomfortable and scratches the back of her hand, "I'm really sorry."

"Give her a call then and ask her where she is."

She picks up the phone, searches through her address book and starts dialling. Most of her soft speech is drowned out but she manages to get a hold of the client. Her eyes light up and she slumps back in her seat. Sounds like the client remembered after all.

"Further up the hill than that," she says, eyes fixed on her desk in concentration, "if you're at the three hundreds, you've gone too far. Can you see the Italian restaurant? Yeah, Salvatore's, it's just a little downhill of that. We're at 230. Um, no, there aren't any gas stations for a few blocks. It's near City Hall, if you can see City Hall, you can't miss us. Can you see us now? Great, parking's at the back. See you soon!" She drops the phone back on the cradle and twists her chair around. With all smiles, she says, "She's coming, she was just a little lost."

"Good." His building is on a main street beside the biggest shopping mall of the city. It should have been easy to find. He makes a note of this and attaches it to her file.

A few minutes later, his client, out of breath, rushes through the door. Her ponytail is loose and her face is pink from exertion, "I am so sorry for being late! I swear I looked up your address last night and printed it out and everything. The thing said it would only take twenty minutes but there was traffic and construction and it was hard to get here. I'm so sorry! I hope I didn't keep the doctor waiting for too long!"

"That's alright," his office admin offers, "Our building is all tucked in the back here, and other clients have a hard time sometimes too."

"Oh good! 'Cause I don't want to make a bad impression!" She swings her purse, which had slipped to her elbow, over her shoulder, "Um, so do I wait here? I'm not really sure."

On cue, he steps out of his open-doored office and approaches his client. He extends his hand but doesn't smile, "I'm Doctor Malik Ishtar."

"I'm Miho," she gives an over-compensating grin and shakes vigorously, "Miho Nosaka. And I'm so sorry for being late."

"Let's get started. You can bring all your things with you." He starts walking and she follows. His office admin makes a face but hides it well and scrambles back to work.

He immediately takes his seat but Miho stays standing as she takes in the sight of his office with amazement, "Most of the doctor's offices I've seen are small and they just have a bed and some chairs and equipment and things like that. But this place looks really cozy and it looks so refined and… vintage."

"You must mean medical doctors. I'm a psychologist, our professions are different and our workspace is different. Please take a seat."

"I'm sure lots of people have told you this already," she continues and, to his chagrin, moves to pick something up from his bookshelf, "But your office looks just like the ones I've seen in movies. You know, it looks like your typical "cultured" psychiatrist's office." She looks around some more, "Only thing missing is that bed-couch thingy they make you lie on when they hypnotize you. Do you actually use the bed-thingy or is it just something in the movies?"

"…No." He opens her file and scribbles something on her behavioural observation form.

ADD?

ADHD?

He gives a quick glance at the referral information, recalling that she was supposed to be one of the 'boring' ones.

Client: Miho Nosaka
DOB: March 11, 1994
Background: Client describes symptoms of mild depression upon her freshman year at Domino University. She is recently separated from her boyfriend of one and a half years. She reports a decrease in appetite and sleep and a disinterest in her studies. She reports bouts of intense loneliness even when in a crowded space. She is currently not taking any medication other than oral vitamins, which she takes inconsistently. She currently lives in a single-room dorm at the university and visits her family on the weekends.

Definitely a boring case. But in order to keep himself under the radar, he needed cases like these in which he could see them once, maybe twice, offer recommendations and let them be on their way unscathed.

"Please take a seat, Ms. Nosaka. We need to get started."

She fumbles with his glass ornament and almost drops it. "Oh I'm so sorry! I have a bad habit of grabbing things without asking first. That was really close; it would have sucked if I had to pay for that, huh?"

He sucks in a breath. The top of his hourglass was almost half empty, "Please take a seat, Ms. Nosaka."

"Okay. Sorry again! Sorry!" She scurries to the leather chair, throws her bag and jacket over the back and sits down with one leg draped over the other. Within a few seconds, her foot starts jiggling.

He circles the 'ADHD' and makes a note to give her testing.

"It says here that you're depressed." He begins when he finally gets her attention,
"Let's start with that."

"Well," She fiddles and looks at the ground, "I'm usually a pretty positive person but lately I just feel kind of sad, well, more than sad actually. I feel… blah. I think it might be the changes. I just started university and my friends aren't around. The classes are huge compared to high school and it's hard to make friends when I see different people all of the time. I think it's just the change. I told my mom I'll get used to it but she wanted me to see a doctor."

"It says here you also broke up with your boyfriend."

She nearly jumps in her seat, "Oh geeze it says that! That's like having my pant size in there - too, too personal. Not that I'm ashamed of my pant size or anything, it's just kind of creepy when total strangers know this stuff about you. No offence, of course, you're a psychiatrist -"

"Psychologist."

"—sorry, a psychologist, and you want to help. But still, it's weird."

Cut the crap and "Tell me about your break-up."

"Uh well, he told me it was because of school. He said it wasn't because of anything I did but I miss him a lot and I hope he misses me too."

He's caught the mouse by the tip of its tail, he feels, and his pen moves across the paper, "Do you believe that? You're not much of a looker, he could be with someone more attractive and just wants to soften up that fact."

"Of course I believe that! He never lies to me and he cares a lot about me! And I'm a very attractive person!"

"Does he call?"

She pauses, "He's too busy."

"Did he tell you that or do you just assume that?"

"Well," the other foot is shaking now, "I'm busy too. I have five classes a semester and all of my classes have a midterm every two weeks! If I wasn't so sad, I would study as hard as he does."

"And why do you think you're sad?"

"Because of all the changes! But it'll go away eventually."

"How do you know?"

"Because I'm usually a happy person. And now I have you to talk to!"

He stops writing and grimaces. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see that all the sand had fallen to the bottom. He would have gotten more out of her if she hadn't wasted so much time. "Time's up for today."

She looks surprised, "Does that mean I'm better? I'm not sad anymore?"

"No, it means I'm scheduling you to come back again," He gets up to open the door and walks out before she does in hopes that she'll follow, "Schedule her for early next week," he instructs his office admin, who jumps at his voice.

"But you're booked for the next two weeks."

"Find one of them to move, then and put her in."

She stares at him, scanning to see if he's serious, "But… but which one?" She finally asks.

"The easiest one to move." He turns around and sees that Miho is still sitting in the chair and watching their interaction. He beckons her as politely as his nerves can stand and she quickly grabs her belongings before shuffling out.

"My office administrator will call you and let you know when to return next week. I'll see you then, Ms. Nosaka."

Miho looks confused at first but then nods and waves at him, "Okay, I'll see you next week. It was a nice talk." She turns to go but pauses, "And I'm sorry for almost breaking that thing of yours. See you next week!"

He goes to his office and smacks the door close behind him when she's gone. He'd felt the headache sneak in as he was talking to Miho and was glad to be done for the day. He rubs his throbbing temples but it only worsens until it feels like his eyes would pop out of their sockets. He slips into the seat behind his chair and buries his face in his hands. It was like something inside his head wanted out and soon the pain becomes unbearable. Eyes still closed, he reaches for the draw with the whiskey and feels around for medication. Nothing is there, only the bottle, and he vaguely recalls that he hasn't had a headache in a very long time. So he pours himself a drink and chugs it, nearly crushing his glass when the sting reaches the pain in his head with the intensity of a lightning strike.

When, mercifully, it subsides, he is exhausted. His blond hair is messy and a film of sweat mists his hairline. The veins on his forehead are protruding, something that only happens under extreme stress. He cannot think clearly and all he does, for the amount of time it takes for all the sand to fall to the bottom of the glass, is stare at Miho Nosaka's file.

She is like a greased-up ocelot the way she keeps slipping through his fingers.

"You're clearly in denial."

"What do you mean?" She's wearing more make-up than the last time he saw her and her mascara-enhanced eyelashes makes little dots under her eyebrows when she blinks too emphatically.

"You convince yourself things will get better because you can't face your reality."

She thinks for a moment, "What reality is it that I'm hiding from? I'm pretty sure I told you things the way they are."

"For one, you delude yourself into thinking your ex-boyfriend still cares, even though it's obvious that he doesn't."

"And how, doctor, do you know that?"

"It's clear from what you described that he has stopped giving a shit about you."

Miho giggles and waves a finger, "I don't think psychologists are supposed to say things like that. It's mean. But don't worry, I know you're kidding."

He rubs his stomach, feeling a little sick, "I wasn't kidding. The way you talk is a clinical condition, like your depression. You're sick… and very desperate."

They'd gone well over the allotted time but he'd chosen to ignore this. He'd heard his office admin knock on the door several times but he'd ignored that as well. As for Miho, she seemed completely oblivious to the time, which was a good thing for him since it meant her (unknowing) compliance.

At least there was compliance there.

"Which is why I'm here to talk to you of course!"

She has said this several times now and every time feels like a knife with teeth grinding away at his flesh, "Talking to me only works if you open your ears for once and listen to me."

"Oh I'm listening but I just think you don't have enough information, that's why I have to explain as I go along."

"You're denying rather than explaining."

She bites her thumbnail as she thinks deeply on this, at least appearing to think, "I'm not denying anything. You're just wrong. I know you're a psychiatrist and all but, sorry, you're wrong this time."

"I'm never wrong!" He has raised his voice and instantly regrets it, "It's not productive for a client to say that, Ms. Nosaka. And I assume you're here because you need me to fix this mess of a life of yours."

"I think I already told you I'm here because my mom made me. Well, actually, that was the first time. I came again because you kind of made me come. No offence, but your approach is kind of weird. I'm no expert or anything but I don't think you're much help."

He can feel the vein throbbing in his head as he tries to think of something to write. So far, his pad showed nothing but scribbled, crossed-out notes and some tears from where he pressed a little too hard. It always made his clients nervous when he stopped for extended periods of times to write. But in the midst of his rage, nothing came. "Despite all my efforts, you're not a very grateful little girl, are you?"

"I'm sorry," her mood turns almost instantly, "I'm just, uh," she scrunches her shoulders and blushes, "I started my, you know, monthly today and I get weird sometimes when I do."

"That's another sign of denial, blaming your behaviour on your period."

The leather crunches as she squirms, the word had made her uncomfortable, "No, it's just me with cramps."

He blinks hard. When he opens his eyes again, he sees something crawl up the corner of his office. He can't tell what it is – and maybe it slithered up the wall instead of really crawled. He stares at it, not out of fear, but more out of bewilderment. "What is that?"

"What's what?" She follows his gaze and then gives him a quizzical glance, "I don't see anything."

And in an instant, it's all gone. When he turns attention back to his client, she is no longer there. He stares at the empty sofa before carefully placing his clipboard on his desk and approaching it. There isn't even an indent in the sofa to indicate anyone had been in it. And when, confused, he opens the door of his office to ask his office admin, she tells him that Miho was seen yesterday, that it was quick and that she'd left in a hurry.

She asks him if anything was wrong but he doesn't answer, he only inquires as to when Miho would be in again. He gives a satisfied grunt when she tells him and retreats back into his office, locking the door behind him. He pours himself a drink and picks up his hourglass, shakes it and sets it down. As if arrested in time, the sand refuses to move. He picks it up and again and shakes it more vigorously, but it is still too stubborn. When he looks through the bottom to see what the problem is, the sand gushes down onto his face. It keeps coming, waves and waves of it until he cannot breathe. His attempts at protecting himself are futile and soon, everything goes black.

"I feel like if I try to look nice, it'll help me feel better."

"Do you feel better now?"

She smoothes out her powder blue dress and arranges it neatly around her lap, "I do actually! On my way here, I was checked out by a couple of cute guys. That felt really good!"

"How did you feel afterwards?"

"What do you mean by that?"

"After that scrap of attention they threw at you, how did you feel after that?"

"I don't remember, I still felt good, I guess."

"What about the emptiness inside?"

"What emptiness?"

"The one you're feeling right now. The one that feels like there's a hole inside your belly, the one you said before feels like a weight dragging your down from within."

"I said that?"

"Yes you did. I have it written down. See?" He shows her, "Right here, as you said it."

She gives a breath of laughter, "It's kind of weird for me to say something so flowery but if you have it written down, I guess I must have said it. Maybe my English is getting better. That's a good thing, right?"

"I wouldn't say better, Ms. Nosaka. The truth is, no amount of make-up you slap on and no dress, no matter how garish, will help. The sickness, the poison," he taps his skull, "is in the head."

"So what do I go to make it better?"

"Admit that you're a hopeless cause."

She smiles that sunny smile that makes him rage inside, "Nah, I don't want to."

When he awakens, he feels like something he'd been injected with something lethal. He can feel his hair standing on end and when he brings his hands to his face, it's rough. Something hot burns the inside of his head and his muscles twitch with adrenaline. There is a lot of pent-up energy inside to expel but he doesn't know what to do with it. When he lets it out, it quickly escapes his control and the aftermath is chaos. Anything in his hand breaks, shatters and burns until little is recognizable. He moves, unable to stop until whatever fuels his fire finally runs dry. The orderly office of the psychologist betrays him when it becomes the hysterical mess that mirrors his mind.

"You're losing your touch."

"Shut up!"

"And once you do, you'll be exposed to the world."

"I won't let that happen, I'll squish her!"

"If you could do it, you already would have."

"I can. I just need more time with this one. They all work differently but they all crack when hit hard enough."

"You're a failure."

"I'll succeed."

"We'll see."

A soft knock comes through his door, "Is everything okay?"

"Yes," he replies, "Now please, this is a private conversation."

She is so close he could feel it on the tips of his fingernails.

"Ready to admit it yet?"

Even though this client held most of his interest, he couldn't remember how many times she'd come by or how long their sessions lasted. It felt as if she'd always been around, as if his struggles with her had gone on forever, that he was Sisyphus and she was the cursed boulder.

"I don't know," she gives a wiry sigh, a rare treat from this girl. She'd reverted to wearing just enough make-up to make herself presentable and showing up in causal jeans and a sweatshirt, "I feel like I'm getting better but you keep saying I'm not."

"That's because you're not. You're stuck in the same place you've been since the beginning but you're too hard-headed to admit it."

"But isn't it about how I feel? Isn't that what this is about?"

"Your feelings are an illusion. Your own head is lying to you."

There are bags under her eyes and her tired face is drained of colour. Her hair is held back by an elastic band instead of the usual yellow bow. "Well I'm tired of getting up early and coming here every week. It's really exhausting."

"Then stop resisting me." When he stands, he casts a long shadow over her.

She cranes her head up to look at him, "Is that what I've been doing?"

"Yes."

"I'm sorry."

"We can fix that. But you have to listen to me."

"Will it make me better? I won't be sick anymore?"

It's tangible, the moment she slips nicely into his hands, "You'll be in the best possible place."

It would take two weeks of waiting but the call that made it all worthwhile would come. Before her resignation, his office admin would tell him that Miho Nosaka had attempted suicide, that she was in critical condition in the ICU and that if she made it through, there would be neurological brain damage.

The office administrator turned her attention from her report, "Oh hi Ms. Nosaka! I don't think you have an appointment today, can I help you with anything?"

"Oh I know, I just came to drop this off," Miho reached into her recyclable sack and pulled out a neatly wrapped present, "It's just a little something for the doctor. I'd planned to thank him for helping me get better but my last appointment was cancelled."

"I'm sure he'd appreciate it," she pursed her lips and glanced down at the calendar without really know why, "but I'm afraid he went on emergency leave and I'm not sure when he'll be back."

"Oh, did he say why?"

The office administrator sighed with wiry, "Afraid not. My plate's pretty full because he left so unexpectedly. I had to cancel quite a few people and they weren't happy."

Miho clicked her tongue, "Ouch. That sounds really stressful."

"It is."

"Well how about you take it instead? It's just chocolate," she offered after a brief contemplative pause, "I mean, I don't want these to go to waste and I don't really care for chocolate so much anyways. Not that they're bad or anything, they're the expensive kind actually!"

The woman at the desk smiled, "Its okay, you don't have to."

"It's fine!" Miho placed the box on a stack of papers, "You go ahead and take them."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah! I just wanted to thank him. I'll bet a lot of clients don't take the time to do that."

"They don't actually," the office admin couldn't help but warm up to the girl, "I'll be sure to pass it onto him when he gets back. I'm sure he'll appreciate it."

"It's probably a good thing he went on vacation," Miho added on her way out, "He seemed really stressed."

"He'll be fine. People in his profession tend to know how to take care of themselves."

-End-