Five weeks of the same routine is enough to make a man need therapy. Wake. Shower. Eat. Therapy. Exercise. Eat. Therapy. Read. Eat. Therapy. Sleep.
Wash. Rinse. Repeat.
Fuck me, I’m going insane.
And speaking of fucking, if I don’t get to see my girl soon, I might die. Seriously. I get to talk to her on the phone every night before bed, so that helps. Though it’s in a common room, and privacy is pretty much a foreign concept in this place.
But if I’m being completely honest? It was worth it. Coming here. Talking my shit out. For the first time in forever, I feel hopeful. I’m looking forward to getting back to Layla, back to Spain, and back to the team. Back to my life, which feels like it’s been suspended in limbo for five long weeks. It feels good to feel hopeful.
That is, I felt hopeful. Right up until my final evaluation with Dr. Sanderson.
“So, Landen. This is your last week here. How do you feel about that?” She leans back in her chair and eyes me passively. Like she couldn’t care less about my answer.
“Well, no offense, Doc, but I’m ready to get the hell out of here.”
A small smile teases at her lips. “That so?”
I shrug. “I mean, no disrespect or anything. It’s a nice place and I appreciate the fact that I’m not the only one with issues. I actually enjoyed group therapy a lot more than I thought I would. But yeah, I have a life to get back to.”
“Understood,” she says, leaning forward. “Let’s talk about that life for a moment.”
“Okay.” I fold my arms because I feel like I’ve done nothing but talk about my life for the past thirty-five days. What the hell else is there to say?
“Tell me a little about what you’re going back to.”
I frown, unsure of what her game is. She already knows all of this. “You know. My job, my team, my girlfriend.”
She nods. “Your pregnant girlfriend, right? The one with the brain tumor?”
“Hematoma,” I correct her through clenched teeth. “Your point?”
She sighs and leans back in her chair. “My point is,” she begins, aiming the pen she holds at my hands gripping the arms of my chair, “that your life still contains difficult situations that remain out of your control. True or false?”
“True,” I relent.
“So I’ve got good news and bad news, Landen. Which would you like to hear first?”
“Whichever.”
She stares at me for a moment. “Landen, your father…he was abusive. You’ve come to terms with that somewhat in the past few weeks. Yes?”
Fucking hell, I am over rehashing this shit. “Yeah. My mom had an affair when he was deployed. With a soccer player on a traveling team. Guy died of cancer a few years ago. It’s all out in the open now. Why my dad hated me so much.”
“Right. Well, can I be honest?”
“Please do,” I answer.
“I think there’s more to it than that. More to why you are the way you are and why he is the way he is. Would you like to hear my theory?”
“Isn’t that what I’m paying you for?” Well, what the club is paying her for, but no need to split hairs at this point.
“I suppose. Okay, well…bear with me for a second.” I don’t say anything so she continues. “Landen, did you ever hear about the road rage guy a few years ago? He got out of his car and had a confrontation with a woman in which he grabbed the small dog from her car and flung it into oncoming traffic.”
“Yeah, I guess. Sounds vaguely familiar. You think I have road rage?”
“No. And I don’t think he did either. I think that what he had was actually something called Intermittent Explosive Disorder. He didn’t have a criminal record or a history of violence. He did have a sudden outburst, which caused him to do something hurtful that most people wouldn’t have done.”
“I’m guessing this is the bad news portion of our session?”
She folds her hands in her lap. “It is. This is the part where I tell you that I’m pretty certain your father, or the man who raised you, has IED. And I’m fairly certain you have it as well. Childhood abuse is one of the leading causes.”
“IED.” I test it out in my mouth. It tastes like shit.
“Yes. Intermittent Explosive Disorder. I can give you some pamphlets or you can google it. Up to you.”
I feel like a neon sign flashing the bright red words FUCKED UP is hanging over my head. “Okay. So how do we cure it? I mean, how do I make it go away before I toss Fido into traffic?”
She tilts her head and gives me an apologetic smile. The full weight of what she’s saying settles onto my chest.
Shit. “There’s no cure, is there? I’m stuck like this for life?” A lump constricts my airway. I try to think about the strategies I’ve learned these past few weeks. Deep breathing. Taking stock of the good things in my life. Layla. Soccer. Finally knowing the truth.
“Tell me what happens, Landen. When you first feel yourself getting angry. What happens?” The doctor sits right across from me but her voice is far away.
You are worthless.
“I hear him. My—The Colonel. Telling me I’m worthless. Pathetic. That I ruin everything.” My voice sounds strange in my own ears.
“Breathe, Landen. Take a few deep breaths.”
I do as she says.
“Focus. Stay with me, okay? There’s more, Landen. Remember, I have good news too, okay?”
I open my eyes. I don’t even remember closing them. “Right. Okay.”
“Listen, lots of people go through things and come out better for it. I just watched you tamp down your anger all on your own. So that tells me you have been paying attention these past few weeks.”
I nod, realizing she’s right.
“Here,” she says, handing me two squares of paper. “One of these is for your blood pressure. As expected, yours is pretty high.”
“And the other?” I ask, glancing down at the unrecognizable scrawl on the pages.
She gives me a tense smile. “It’s an antipsychotic.”
“Holy shit. You think I’m psychotic?” Well this just went from bad to worse.
“Relax. No. You’re far from it. But it also functions as a mood-stabilizer. At first it will make you sleepy. But once your body adjusts to it, which usually takes about two weeks, it will keep your physiological responses from sky-rocketing when you get upset.”
“Do you think it will work? Keep me from having rages when I get angry?”
“That would be the hope. But if it doesn’t, we can try Clonazepam, also known as Klonopin. It’s been used from everything from seizures to anxiety.”
“I’m actually familiar with that one. My girlfriend took it for a while. She has seizures. Or she used to have them. New medication seems to be working extremely well.” Thank God. Another thing to be thankful for. My mouth goes dry at the thought of anything happening to my girl. Or the baby she’s carrying.
“Ah. Well, here’s the thing. And as a doctor, it might sound strange coming from me.”
That gets my attention. “I’m listening.”
“Ultimately, I don’t want you to be on medication. I want you to be in therapy on a regular basis. I want you to use what you’ve learned here to keep yourself in check when things get out of control. So if it’s up to me, meaning if I’m the doctor who oversees your care, we’ll start with the heavy hitter, the antipsychotic, then we’ll wean you down to a mild anti-depressant, and then hopefully, one day, we’ll stop the meds altogether.”
“When I’m cured.”
“Um, no.” She pins me with another sympathetic head tilt. They must teach it in med school. “The thing is, the truth is, there’s no cure for IED. It’s not something that goes away, Landen. It’s something you learn to live with. To deal with in more appropriate ways than flying into a rage and breaking every stick of furniture you own every time you get upset.”
She says something else. Actually, she rambles on for what seems like forever. But I don’t hear her. All I hear are the words that ruin my life, shattering the picture of my family I have in my head. The one where Layla and I raise our kid in a safe, happy home like she wants.
I have IED. And there’s no cure for it.
That past five and a half weeks have been a complete waste.