After Leila came and picked up Calum, Max drove us to the facility, which I prayed would be able to help the man I loved. “So, here we are,” he said as he got out and took my hand, helping me out, too.
Being a nurse, I was used to medical facilities. This one was something else, though. Everything was state of the art. The building was large, but it didn’t have that morose hospital feel to it. Positive energy flowed invisibly through the air.
Gripping August’s arm, I whispered, “I like the atmosphere here, babe.”
“It does seem upbeat, doesn’t it?” he asked, as we went to the reception desk. “August Harlow. I spoke with someone earlier about seeking treatment.”
“Of course,” the young woman said with a smile. She pointed to a frosted glass door. “Dr. Sheldon is waiting for you right through those doors. He’ll go over the treatment plan, and once you agree with it, you’ll sign papers, and we’ll get you started on your road to success, Mr. Harlow.”
With a nod, we headed the way she’d pointed and found soft music playing when we came into the doctor’s office. The man we met there had a soft voice and the kind of demeanor that put one at ease right away.
I had to admit; he seemed so genuine. Much more so than any other doctor I’d ever dealt with. Confidence filled me as he told us how they went about doing things. “While we have had much success with our treatments here, it’s important that you understand that therapy is something you will have to be in for the rest of your life, August. You should get used to that fact.”
August didn’t seem to be pleased by that and asked, “Isn’t your mission to cure me?”
“There is no cure for what ails you. Can you imagine being the victim of a shooting, or a child who’s been horribly abused?” the doctor asked him.
August shrugged. “I guess so.”
“Well, would you expect them ever to be cured of their memories?” The way the doctor smiled made my heart sore. He was the real deal—like an angel sent here to help others.
August could only shake his head. “No, I guess you can’t cure memories. So, how the hell can you help me?”
“While we can’t wipe your memory bank clean, we can help you handle those memories a lot better. People who’ve had an overload of terrible things happen to them have it much harder than your average person. Hence, why so many military personnel in particular end up with PTSD.” The doctor took out a bottle of pills. “This is what MDMA looks like.”
“You should know that I don’t like taking pills, Doc.” August shrugged again. “I don’t like the effects they have on me, and I don’t want to depend on them either.”
“Let me explain this drug to you first, and let’s see if I can help you understand what this can do to help you. And let me tell you this, too—this is not a drug you will take forever, the way you’ll have to have therapy forever.” The doctor opened the bottle, spilling all the pills out on the desk in front of him.
“That’s a lot of pills,” August mumbled.
“This is your personal one-month supply,” the doctor let him know. “And with our help and observations, you’ll learn when to take one and when you don’t need to take one.”
“Okay, wait. I’ve got to ask this,” August interjected, “this is ecstasy, right? So, I’ll get aroused, won’t I? How am I supposed to handle that sexual frustration when you’ll have me locked up in here?”
With a knowing smile, the doctor answered him, “No one says you can’t masturbate, August. You’ll have a room to yourself here—lots of privacy. Now, let me explain this medication to you. These pills are made up of three neurotransmitters. Serotonin makes up most of it. Now, you can purchase serotonin in any drugstore over the counter. It’s most often used as an aid to those who have trouble falling asleep. People with mild anxiety take serotonin as well. Does any of that worry you so far, August?”
“I suppose if it can be sold like that then it hasn’t got any bad side effects,” August said. “And it might be like taking the vitamin supplements I take every day. Right?”
With a nod, the doctor went on. “So, you’re on board with the serotonin. The other two ingredients, dopamine and norepinephrine, have similar effects. They’re the components that will increase alertness—they’ll increase your energy level, too. And with all that positive blood flow, well, your arousal is also increased. And lastly, the relaxing effects of the serotonin act as a base that help level everything out.”
“Okay, is this feel-good drug addictive?” August pointed out. “I do not want to leave this place addicted to anything.”
“Tell me, do you think you have an addictive personality? Do you need alcohol or tobacco or anything like that?” the doctor asked.
Pulling up our clasped hands, August kissed mine. “She’s the only thing I’ve ever been addicted to. Yet, I’m finding the strength to stay away from her for fourteen days, aren’t I?”
A blush heated my cheeks, and I ducked my head as the doctor went on, “Well, I’m glad to hear that, August. While you’re taking this medication, you will be strictly observed. It’s not our intention to get anyone addicted to anything. We’re not a pharmaceutical company, nor do we have any connections to any of them. We’re in the business of helping people. And we do so by lightening their mood before we have deep therapy sessions. Our sessions sometimes last twelve hours, mostly eight though. This pill will help you think about things you’ve shoved into the deepest recesses of your mind and deal with those memories while in a calm, cool state of consciousness.”
“So, what you’re saying is you guys will pull out all the shit I’ve seen, done, and dealt with, and teach me how to interpret it in a new way? A positive way? Because let me tell you, there are things I’ve seen and done that no amount of spin will turn into a positive thing,” August argued.
The doctor smiled at that, and I started to feel a bit confused, thinking August might not do as well here as we’d hoped. “Maybe this isn’t the best place for him,” I said, as I squeezed August’s hand.
The doctor leaned forward, steepling his fingers then resting his chin on them. “I feel exactly the opposite, Tawny. You see, your fiancé is the perfect candidate for this. His concerns are valid, and he has conviction in his heart. It is clear he is ready to work hard to deal with this issue. My bets are on August, and I rarely lose my bets.”
August looked at me, and then took a deep breath. “I’m going to stay, Tawny. I’m going to give this my all. And I’m doing it for you, Calum, and those future kids we’re going to have. But I’m also doing it for me.”
“Better words have never been spoken, August,” the doctor complimented him.
When it came time to leave August there, I did so with hope in my heart and a smile on my face, even though tears filled my eyes. I was going to miss him so much, but this was something he had to do.
Chapter 24
August
“I have a little test I need you to take, August,” a female therapist named Tasha told me as she placed a laptop computer on the desk in my room.
I’d been admitted to the PTSD treatment facility and taken to what would be my room for the next two weeks. It had only been a couple of hours, and already I missed Tawny and Calum like crazy. But I wanted to do this for us. I had to do it.
“Okay, I just check the yes or no boxes?” I asked as I looked at the list of questions. The first question asked whether I had ever been exposed to a traumatic event.
“Yes,” Tasha said as she nodded. “And be truthful with this. Therapy works best if you’re honest and vulnerable, especially when you’re used to being a tough guy. No one is strong all the time, and it’s important for you to let those weaknesses show.” She headed for the door. “I’ll leave you to it then.”
Alone, I looked around the room. A small full-sized bed was in one corner and a desk sat right across from it—that’s where I sat. The walls were a pale blue, the door pristinely white, and the floor was done in bamboo wood flooring—givin
g the room a serene, calming feel. The few pictures that hung on the walls were of flowers, butterflies, and one was of a flock of birds. A small bathroom was attached to the room, giving me all the privacy I could ask for.
Turning my attention back to the test, I checked yes for the first question. The next question asked if I’d ever experienced the threat of injury or death, to which I again checked the yes box.
Although I tried not to think about that, I guess it was part of the process of fixing my fucked-up mind. The next question asked if I’d felt fear, helplessness, or horror. That one had me going back and trying to count the number of times I’d felt those emotions.
Shaking my head, I had to stop that line of thought. There were too many to count. Another yes box had to be checked.
Do you regularly experience intrusive thoughts about the traumatic event?
I had to ask myself what regularly meant. But then the thought of these nightmares I’d been unaware of came to mind, and I had to check yes again.
The next question asked if I felt at times like I was reliving the event, and another yes was at hand. Recurring nightmares, stress over the memory, avoiding thoughts about the event, avoiding people that reminded me of the event, all of those had to be checked with a yes as well.
I was on a roll. A bad one. And I wondered if all these yes answers would only earn me more time in the place.
Then I got to check a no when asked if there were things I wasn’t able to recall about the event. No, I recalled everything well—too well, actually.
Had I lost interest in anything I had once enjoyed doing? I was able to check another no on that one.
Whew, for a minute there I thought I was a goner!
More no boxes followed as it asked if I had difficulty trusting people, or showing emotions. Did I fear I’d never have a normal future? I was able to check the no boxes about having trouble falling asleep. I thought I’d been sleeping like a baby, but I’d been wrong about that. But I knew I never had trouble falling asleep.
Angry outbursts got a no, too, and so did difficulty concentrating. But then the question about having guilt over those who died while I survived had to get a yes.
Oh, well, they can’t all be no.
I was there for a reason, after all. I had a mix of yes and no answers as I continued through the questionnaire. Did I startle easily; did I feel as if I had to be on guard all the time, ready to spring into action?
I could spring into action whenever I needed to, like I did with the wildfire situation and Calum—but I didn’t go around tense and ready to spring.
I checked the yes box for the question about whether I’d been experiencing this for longer than a month. The last question made me pause, though.
Do your symptoms interfere with normal routines, such as work, school, or social engagements?
Did they?
I had to think about that one. I could go out without any trouble. Ah, but there had been the incident on the freeway, and then a couple of others in the past—one in a nightclub, one in a restaurant. Another yes had to be checked, and then I hit the Submit button.
The score said twelve, and I thought that was pretty good. But when I looked at the bottom portion, I read that anything over ten was considered to be evidence of symptoms of PTSD.
Well, that wasn’t anything I didn’t know already. I would indeed be spending the next fourteen days here with the good doctors and therapists. I supposed things could’ve been worse. I could’ve lost Tawny and Calum, which thankfully hadn’t happened yet—and wouldn’t, whether I had to stay here fourteen day or fourteen months to fix this.
With the test submitted, Tasha came back into the room. “August, the results showed us what areas you need to work on. Just a few more questions, so we can get you all set up.” She tapped a pen on the top of her clipboard then put it to the paper. “Do you feel more at ease speaking with a male or female?”
“Hmm, I think I’d like it to be a male.” I liked talking to Tawny, but mostly it felt easier talking to men about my weaknesses.
“Okay,” she said, as she took note of that. “And do you like being in a group or alone when you discuss private matters?”
“Alone,” came my quick answer. I wasn’t one to talk freely in a group—never was, never would be.
“Okay, then just one more thing,” she said, as she looked at me. “Are you a daytime person or a nighttime kind of guy?”
“I get up early each morning, so put me down as daytime.” I got up out of the chair, eager to get things started. “So, when can we get started?”
“Soon. I’ll input this data into my computer and have a schedule for you in about an hour. Lunch is being served, so why don’t you head to the cafeteria and introduce yourself to the others?” She left the room, and I stood there, wondering if I really wanted to go meet anyone.
The idea of hobnobbing wasn’t sitting well with me. But the growl of my stomach told me to go eat, so out I went to find my way to the cafeteria.
About fifteen people were seated at various tables. Just like high school, they seemed to have their cliques. When I spotted a USMC tat on one guy’s arm, I headed to that table after picking up a tray of food and a bottle of water. “Hi, I’m August Harlow, formerly known as Major Harlow, First of the First.”
The bulky man shook my extended hand. “Tom Moore, formerly Second Lieutenant Moore, Combat Logistics Regiment Three.” He gestured to the man to his right. “This is Frank Wilson, non-military, son of a Mafia drug lord.”
I shook that man’s hand, too. “Nice to meet you, Frank.”
“You too, August.” Frank went back to eating his turkey on rye, which was the main dish for lunch.
A set of blue eyes found mine as I looked at the woman seated next to him at the round table. “Natasha Granger, formerly Captain Granger of the Tenth Regiment.”
“Ah, the Arm of Decision. Too many decisions you’d rather not have made—is that was brought you here?” I asked her as I shook her hand.
“You could say that,” she answered. Her blonde hair was pulled up into a high ponytail.
The first thing they’d done was give me a set of light blue scrubs to wear, and I found everyone else had them on, too. I’d been told this was because the MDMA could make some people hypersensitive to touch, so they tried to lessen this distraction with the soft, roomy material of the scrubs. The clinical staff all wore white sets of the same scrubs. The others workers in the facility all wore yellow scrubs. As I looked around, it seemed like something out of a sci-fi movie.
One empty chair remained at the table, and one remaining person had yet to introduce herself to me: a quiet young woman with dark hair and eyes. Eyes that looked like they’d seen some shit. With a nod to the empty chair, I introduced myself to her, “Hi. August Harlow. Mind if I take this seat here?”
“Do what you want to. Who am I to stop you?” she said, with a snarky tone to her deep voice.
I took the seat. “And I didn’t catch your name?” I had to say.
“Tillie,” she said, then took a large bite of her sandwich, chewing it as she looked at me.
Natasha nudged me with her shoulder. “She’s an abuse victim,” she told me quietly. “Human trafficking, sold into sex slavery at the age of ten. Rescued last year by DEA agents.”
Tillie’s deep voice took my attention. “My master was all I’d ever known. Now it seems I have no idea how to function in society. So, I came here to see if I can be taught.”
“How old are you?” I asked with concern.
“Twenty-one,” she said with her mouth full of food.
No manners to speak of, it seemed, but who could blame her? “Your family?”
She shook her head. “It was my father who sold me. Mom died when I was eight.”
“Fuck me,” I mumbled. “I’m sorry to hear that. I hope you find help here, Tillie.”
I didn’t have anything compared to that poor girl.
Tom looked across the table at
me. “How long were you in for?”
“Six years,” I said, then took a bite of the sandwich, finding it pretty good.
“I barely made the two-year mark I’d signed up for. I can’t see how you did six.” He took a drink of water from the bottle in front of him, and I noticed there were already three empty bottles of water he’d already drunk.
Natasha chimed in, “I made nearly ten years before this hit me. It was just like, bam! One day sane, the next day screaming at some poor lady in line at the grocery store for no reason other than that she moved too slowly.” She shook her head. “My husband told me I’d been waking up screaming, too. I don’t recall doing that.”
“I’ve been doing things in my sleep, too,” I admitted. “And last night I hit my fiancé in the mouth, busting her lip, then went so far as to choke her. I don’t remember any of it. But the cut on her lip and the marks my fingers left on her throat told me all I needed to know. I had to get help and fast, or I’d lose her and our son.”
Natasha nodded in agreement. “This is my second marriage. I got married when I was only twenty—he was an oil-field worker who didn’t understand why I wanted to be in the military. Now, my husband and our two kids are afraid of where I’m headed. He told me to get help or get out. At thirty years old, starting all over is the last thing I want to do. So, I retired from the marines and came here afterward.”
“Damn,” I murmured. “My girl told me she’d be behind me every step of the way. She said she’d never turn her back on me.”
“Don’t believe her, buddy,” Frank came into the conversation. “No one can take abuse for long, whether you do it in your sleep or not. She’ll leave if you don’t get control of this.”
I doubted the young guy’s words. “If you don’t mind, Frank, how old are you anyway?”
“Twenty-two. A very old twenty-two. I’ve seen shit no one should see, and I didn’t have to leave home to see it.” He downed his water then opened a new one.
Looking around the table, I noticed everyone had at least four bottles of water, and I’d only picked up one. So, I had to ask, “I’m not trying to be rude, but what’s the deal with you all drinking so much water?”
Nightclub Sins: A Billionaire Romance Series Page 44