Page 51 of Love What's Left
I cross my arms over my stomach.
“Everything you’re feeling is completely understandable, but your trauma doesn’t have to define you. You can conquer your fear. It starts one small step at a time.”
I rock in place, wishing I had my red sash to hold. “You’re trying to m-manipulate me. I don’t like it.”
She straightens. “That’s not my intent. Let’s try some of the relaxation techniques we spoke about. The goal is to be gentle with yourself, rather than pick at a mental scab. To give yourself time to heal.”
My pulse races. “No. You t-tried to make me eat.”
“I asked if you’d be willing to eat. I wouldn’t force you. Can you do the breathing exercises we practiced? Deep breath in.”
“No.” I should have recorded this session or asked my husband to stay.
Brown eyes.Brown eyes that coaxed, then demanded. She has the same eyes as someone who let Markov hurt me. She speaks the same way, as if she wants something from me I won’t ever give.
“You tried to make me eat. You’re a g-gas—” The word gaslighter gets stuck between my brain and mouth.
She puts the evil cookie back in her bag. “I would never do that.I’m here to help you.”
I lurch to my feet and run for the door, but when I get there, there’s no way out. She locked me in. Again.
I claw at the green-painted metal, my nails tearing. “McRae! Minion!”
I’m not alone this time. I can’t be alone again.
The woman approaches. “You’re in your home. The door opens with the handle.”
I waver on my feet, and the doctor yanks me away just as my husband and Dave bust into the room like a couple of SWAT guys in a movie.
“What do you need, Syd?” Dave positions himself between me and the psychiatrist, and my husband stands beside me, steadying me as his body partially covers mine.
Frankhouser cranes around Dave.
“Are you okay?” McRae examines me.
I shake my head.
“Under the circumstances, I don’t believe it’s wise to encourage her to refer to you and the staff asminions—”
“It’s called having a sense of humor. You should try it,” McRae says.
Frankhouser speaks to me in a soothing tone, like I’m a particularly dense toddler. “People don’t have minions. You’re not a villain in a comic book. This is your husband and a staff member.”
“I know,” I say. It’s a nickname. A joke turned into a habit.
My husband squeezes my hand. “Don’t listen, sunshine. You have several minions.” He glares at Frankhouser. “I’ll hire more if you want them.”
“I’m 100 percent your minion, Syd,” Dave says reassuringly.
“This isn’t funny.” Color floods up the doctor’s neck. “It’s clear she remains a danger to herself and others. I recommend hospitalization in a facility where—”
“No.” I shake my head.I’m not dangerous.But my mouth won’t form those words.
“I can’t condone her remaining here. You both sustained injuries when she required restraint to prevent her from further self-harm. I’d hoped home care would be enough, but it’s clear she’s unwilling to participate in her own treatment,” the psychiatrist says, her tone calm and professional as she attempts to destroy what’s left of my life.
My husband goes solid as a block of ice beside me. “She didn’t attack me that night. I explained it was an accident. She was frustrated because her hair was difficult to manage.”
“An accident which occurred while you attempted to prevent her from harming herself. Hospitalization has its drawbacks under the circumstances, but Sydney needs medication and to be in a controlled environment until she’s stabilized. It isn’t punishment. It’s treatment.”
