The Therapist

At a clinic for psychological therapy. Five months ago.

"Good morning, Martin. Nice to meet you. I have read your file. So, since this is the first session and our first-time doing therapy together, I need to inform you that there is nothing to worry about. I want you to tell me more about what you are feeling, just like you are talking to a friend or writing a diary. Everything you said here is completely confidential." A female counselor sitting at an upholstered chair in front of him began the conversation. This was not new to him, coming to see a therapist. In fact, she was the first person he talked to in a while.

She looked relaxed and slightly moved her glasses as she waited for his reply. Martin didn't look at her. He was busy reading the many diplomas behind the counselor. She was a professional therapist, alright. He didn't doubt her expertise. But he doubted his own sanity. He never knew anyone that sought out helps from therapists, at least to his knowledge. Maybe something was wrong with him.

"I am delighted that the company is paying this $300 an hour medical bill. Because otherwise, I wouldn't choose to be here. Seeing you is apparently very expensive." He didn't show any feelings in his voice. And in fact, Martin felt nothing for several months after that incident. The world had no color, and everything was tasteless. He couldn't imagine he would end up like this, a defeat to his own mind. How pathetic. Perhaps this was how he should pay for his sins.

"I have read your profile. You are an outstanding individual, Martin, highly accomplished. I want to let you know that successful individuals do come to therapy, too. It's a norm to talk things out once in a while. So, I want to let you know that it's safe here. You can say anything. Think of me as a friend. But first thing first, you have to start by acknowledging that treatment is necessary. Otherwise, everything after this will be useless." She looked into his eyes, unblinking. And it was him that was so nervous that he looked down at the ground. He rubbed his sweaty hands together.

His hands tremored, and his body shivered, although the weather was perfectly warm, maybe because he hadn't eaten anything solid for days. Or because he didn't dare close his eyes because of the recurring nightmares.

She was his third psychiatrist in less than a month. Her name was Giselle or something. He didn't care because he desperately wanted to get out of here and avoid confronting his feelings. He only came here because it was an order. The company ordered him to get rid of his affliction as if he had any power to control this illness. Martin knew they wanted him to get better for that outrageous mission. He was key. Otherwise, they wouldn't get into trouble for finding the best psychiatrist in Manhattan.

"You told me you read the file. So, you must know what the hell is wrong with me. Then start treating me! I don't see any need to talk too much about it. You can prescribe some medications, too. More sleeping pills will be useful. I just want to go home." His distrust turned into rage. He was furious about his fate.

The angry expression did not startle the person in front of him. Not even a little. She remained composed and cool and spoke to him in a calm voice.

"PTSD (Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder) could not be healed from medication but from series of therapies, Martin."

He gritted his teeth and wasn't sure if he should go through the treatment or if he should end it all somehow. He was surprised he was alive after all that he had been through. Life had been absurd.

"Consider going through the treatment for your family." This phrase from her made him look up. She must have had a note from his previous psychiatrist. Those words were his weakest point.

"Doctor, if you are me, what would you do?" He stared into her eyes, and his voice began to tremble. He was shaken all over, even to his soul.

The ultimatum in a meeting room on the skyscraper still rang in his ears. The order was uttered on that fateful day.

"They asked me to choose after using me as a tool. They asked me to betray my own friend in exchange for my family's safety."

"Martin…"

"Oh, and I can never trust you. All these medical bills are paid for. They paid for everything I owned and now for my treatment. I bet they will know everything I say to you. It's only logical from their side. I believe it's risk management." He looked at her wide-eyed. But the young psychiatrist must have gotten used to this kind of statement of distrust. She continued to gaze at him, giving him a gentle smile.

"I believe the medical code of conduct would not be enough for you. I take patient confidentially very seriously, you know. What is said in this room stays in this room unless ordered by the court or you did something illegal such as committing murder. But I fully understand your frustration, Martin. So, you can go back home for today and contemplate whether you can trust me. I can do a profile check on me if you want. Let's just say I'm keen to help you. You are a young man with the future ahead of you. Well, if you don't change your mind, our second appointment is next week." The psychiatrist probably thought it was not helpful to continue talking to him if he was not comfortable saying anything more. Martin didn't say much. He took her mini speech as a signal to get up and leave. He was dying for more sleep.

But before he was out of the door, she added.

"Your nightmares will not disappear on their own. But I can help you."