by Dr Harper
“Because it was ten years ago, doc.”
PART TWO
“You didn’t think it was worth mentioning that you molested him as a child?”
Arthur and Sam both looked down.
“We didn’t want you to treat us differently,” Arthur mumbled.
“It is different,” I said, shoving my lunch tray aside the next day. “It changes everything.”
“But it was a decade ago!” said Arthur.
“Trauma doesn’t have an expiration date,” I snapped. “Every decision Sam makes today could be a result of that trauma.”
“What do you mean?” Sam spoke up.
“Sam…” I softened my tone. “A young child does not have the emotional tools necessary to understand why a full-grown adult would harm them like that. And so often times, the body and mind put measures in place to protect them.”
“What kind of measures?”
“Things to numb out the pain—”
“Well I didn’t numb it out,” he said confidently. “I can remember it, and it wasn’t that bad.”
“That’s exactly what I’m talking about,” I said. “Many trauma survivors can re-tell their stories in vivid detail, a hundred times over, but that doesn’t mean the pain is gone.”
“How can I possibly be carrying pain that I don’t feel?” he asked.
“Because it’s been split into another part of your body and mind,” I said. “In this case, your alter.”
Sam scoffed. “He’s emotional. Unstable.”
“He needs help,” I said. “He was much younger. And he was terrified.”
“Well then, we just need to get rid of him, right?”
“No,” I said. “He’s an important part of who you are. And we have to give him a chance to express himself. In a less stressful environment.”
“Express himself?”
“Yes,” I said. “When you’re in a calm place, we can ask him to interact with us. It’s likely going to be very uncomfortable, but I can teach you to become comfortable with discomfort. And then with enough time, we can integrate these parts of you — so that you can feel whole again, and able to trust your choices.”
“So after that,” Arthur spoke up. “If he still wants to be with me, then we know it’s real consent?”
I shot him a nasty look. “Let’s focus on Sam first here.”
“It’s a fair question,” said Sam. “That’s the whole reason we came to see you.”
I sighed and rubbed my eyes.
“Sam, your ability to consent has been manipulated and distorted,” I said. “There is a very high probability that Arthur groomed you as a child.”
“Groomed?”
“Yes,” I said. “Showering you with gifts and kindness to build trust. And then when he violated you, teaching you to blame and doubt yourself.”
“I did no such—”
“Things like convincing you that you asked for it,” I continued. “Or that your body’s natural reactions to sexual stimulation were proof that you liked it.”
“But—”
“Arthur, if you actually care for Sam,” I said. “You’ll happily support my meeting his alter. And you’ll be grateful for his healing, whether or not he chooses to pursue this… relationship.”
His eyes met mine. “Then let’s do it.”
“Sam?” I asked.
He nodded. “Okay.”
“Wonderful,” I said. “Now, when working with the mind and body, it’s important that we ground ourselves. That means finding an environment or activity that helps us feel present in our body. Can you think of anything like that?”
“Well,” he said nervously. “I’ve always liked to dance.”
I gave him an encouraging smile.
“Then let’s dance.”
◆◆◆
“You have thirty minutes,” said the guard, standing by the broom closet. “Leave the radio. Keep it quiet and clean.”
“What?” I said. “We’re not—”
“Thank you,” Arthur said to the guard. “The payment should clear tonight.”
The guard opened the door and stepped aside.
“Good luck,” Arthur whispered to Sam.
Sam nodded and entered the closet. I followed.
I picked up the radio from a nearby stool. It was one of those ancient ones, but it still turned on.
“Let me know when you hear something you like,” I said to Sam as I turned the dial.
He shook his head a few times and said, “They’re all too fast.”
“Oh, I thought this was going to be a dance party,” I said. “Are you looking for more of a slow song?”
“Yeah,” he said with a laugh. “Before she passed, my mom and I used to waltz while we did the dishes after dinner. It’s one of my favorite memories.”
“That sounds really nice,” I said, continuing to turn the dial.
“Perfect!” His eyes lit up as a staticky version of Elton John’s Your Song played from the speaker.
I nodded and placed the radio back on the stool.
“Can we turn off the lights?” he asked. “I think there’s enough light coming from the door.”
I reached for the switch and flicked the lights off. He was right — there was still plenty of light.
“My mom was taller than me,” he said, inching closer to me. “So she would usually rest her arms on my shoulders.”
I raised my eyebrows. “You want me to…?”
He nodded.
I hesitated for a moment, but then reminded myself that the whole goal here was to recreate the safe touch and environment that helped him feel grounded. So I gently draped my arms around his shoulders, ensuring a healthy distance between our bodies.
Sam reached out and placed his hands on my hips.
We began swaying softly to the song, and I saw his face break into a smile.
“I always wanted to dance like this at prom,” he said. “Every time they played a slow song, it was all I could think about.”
“Why didn’t you?” I asked.
“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “After the whole thing with Arthur, I felt sort of… disconnected. More like an observer of the world, rather than a participant. Does that make sense?”
“That’s a common reaction to trauma.”
“I just feel like I missed out on so much of my life,” he said quietly. “Dances… Friends… My first kiss — at least, a normal one.”
For the next few minutes, we talked more about that “disconnected” feeling, and the things that Sam wished he hadn’t missed.
Then he took one hand off my hip and reached into his pocket to take out his envelope.
“Okay, ready?”
“Yes,” I said. “Are you feeling safe and comfortable? If not, we can—”
“I feel safe,” he said confidently.
“Okay,” I said. “And Sam, one more thing.”
“Yeah?”
“You’re likely going to feel intense sensations of shame, self-loathing, and self-doubt — persistent voices that tell you it’s all your fault. That you’re a liar.”
He looked down. “What am I supposed to do if that happens?”
“I want you to allow those feelings,” I said. “While also considering that they may not be true. Just observe and notice the sensations, but don’t believe them.”
He took a deep breath and nodded again.
Then he opened the envelope and looked at the photo inside.
Just like last time, he was calm for a moment.
And then his eyes went wide.
“Hey there,” I said gently. “Stay with me, okay?”
Sam looked up and his eyes locked onto mine.
“You’re safe here,” I said. “You’re safe.”
His breathing became labored and fast, chest and shoulders raising sharply with every breath.
“My chest hurts,” he whispered. “I can’t breathe right.”
“Try through your nose and belly,” I sa
id, doing it myself. “In… and out…”
He took a few breaths like that, keeping his eyes on mine every second — almost like he was afraid to look away.
Then he blurted out: “I’m a freak.”
“That’s not true,” I said, tightening my hold on his shoulders. “Remember, you can stay with that feeling without believing it.”
“But it is true,” he protested, eyes burning. “I’m a sick freak. I wanted it.”
“I want you to experiment with detaching from that voice,” I said. “What if that voice isn’t yours, but instead a voice from Arthur that you took on as your own?”
“How can I detach from it?” he stammered. “It’s — It’s coming from inside of me. It’s who I am.”
“No, it’s not,” I said firmly. “It’s the voice of shame. The ultimate liar. Can you allow it to be there, without accepting it as truth?”
He bit down on his lip and squinted his eyes, a battle waging in his mind.
“Remember, you don’t have to make it go away right now,” I said. “All you need to do is notice this voice. And even as you try to do that — the voice might laugh at you, or ridicule you, or convince you that this is bullshit.”
“It’s doing all of that!” he cried.
“And all you need to do is notice those things,” I said. “Just watch how hard that voice is putting up a fight — how hard it is trying to stay inside of you.”
“But how do I make it stop?”
“Don’t worry about that right now,” I said. “Just stay with it. Stay with the pain. Become comfortable with discomfort, so that your alter doesn’t need to take over and protect you.”
He stared at me desperately, eyes haunted by years of untold wounding.
“You are a good person, Sam,” I said softly, holding his gaze. “I promise, you are good.”
His eyes filled with tears, and he buried his face in my chest.
I held him, and we swayed in the dim light of the closet.
Eventually, the music faded to static.
◆◆◆
When our time was up, the door opened. But Arthur and the guard weren’t anywhere in sight.
Instead, a short woman stood in the doorway, tilting her head with a pensive smile — one that lasted much longer than a normal smile.
“Doctor Peggy Zhang,” she finally spoke, extending her hand to me. “I’m the prison psychiatrist.”
I took a step away from Sam to shake her hand.
“Dr. Harper,” I said. “It’s nice to meet—”
“Hmmm…” She looked like she was lost in some sort of deep thought. “Our paths have finally crossed, Mr. Harper.”
“Doctor Harper,” I corrected her.
She gave me another head-tilt-smile. Then no one spoke for an uncomfortably long time.
“Please, come with me,” said Dr. Zhang. “We need to talk about Sam.”
“I’d just like a few more minutes with him,” I said. “We made some really great progress—”
“Hmmm…” She smiled again and surveyed the room behind me. “Progress? In the broom closet? With an eighteen-year-old boy?”
“What? We were just—”
She let out another soft hmmm, which seemed to be her way of indicating that I should stop speaking.
“Come with me, Mr. Harper,” she said. “There’s something you need to know about Sam.”
PART THREE
Dr. Zhang’s office looked like the Buddha threw up inside of an Ashram.
Himalayan sea salt lamps illuminated statues of Indian deities around the room, and her shelves were lined with mainstream books on Eastern philosophy and positive thinking. Peaceful flute music played from the ceiling, complimented by the gentle trickling of mini waterfall-rocks around the office.
I sat across from Dr. Zhang, and we seemed to be locked in some sort of battle of silence. Neither of us had spoken a word since the moment we arrived.
But, predictably, my patience expired first.
“Is there something you wanted to talk about?” I asked.
Dr. Zhang tilted her head, smiled, and took two sips from a bottle of Kombucha. She wore a necklace with a dangling key, which sparkled in the dim light of the room.
“Look,” I said. “I get it. You’re one of those therapists who waits for the patient to start speaking first. But I don’t even know why we’re—”
“Hmmm…”
The sound came from her nostrils, and it always seemed to be accompanied by a deep look of reflection and contemplation.
“Mr. Harper,” she said after a few moments. “Sam has indicated that he would prefer to pursue treatment with you.”
“Oh, is that what this is about?” I laughed. “Listen, I don’t want to step on any toes. I know you’re the professional around here. I’m just trying to help. But I’ll explain to him that you’re still—”
“Hmmm…”
I did my best to conceal an irritable sigh. This was starting to become extremely annoying.
Dr. Zhang removed the key from her necklace and used it to unlock her desk drawer, pulling out a sealed folder.
Using a “NAMASTE”-inscribed letter opener, she cut through the seal and handed me a stack of papers.
“What are these?” I asked.
“They’re Sam’s files,” she said. “I hope they help with your treatment.”
“Wait, that’s it?” I raised my eyebrows. “You’re just going to — let me treat your patient?”
She tilted her head and smiled. “Mr. Harper, I hope we would never jeopardize a patient’s wellbeing over some sort of imagined… turf war.”
“No,” I said, relieved. “No, of course not. Thank you.”
“I would also encourage Sam to remain on Prazosin and Zoloft for his PTSD,” she said. “However, he no longer seems interested in my advice.”
“I can convince him,” I said quickly. “The last thing he needs right now is an abrupt withdrawal from his medications.”
She nodded and reached into her desk, handing me two orange bottles.
I frowned. “Won’t I get in trouble for carrying prescription pills?”
“I’ve already spoken with the guards,” she said. “I doubt you’ll come across an inmate with an addiction to anti-depressants and blood pressure medications.”
I laughed. “Fair enough.”
She took another sip from her drink, locked the drawer, and then motioned for the guard outside the door to escort me back to my cell.
While we walked, I took a quick glance through the files, curious to learn more about Sam for our next lunch session. Dr. Zhang had definitely done her homework.
There were safe phrases:
Grounding words: darling day, morning sunshine, night star
Things to avoid:
Triggers rapid alter switch: fireflies, moonlight, satin sheets, secret envelope
And something very interesting that I hadn’t even considered:
Ethan… 3rd alter…?
◆◆◆
“Were you one of the Glade Farm boys?” Tony asked at lunch the next day.
“What’s that?” Sam looked up from his tray.
“The pedo-ring.” Tony lowered his voice. “Here in the prison.”
“Alright,” I said, raising my hand. “Let’s take a break from the conspiracies and let Sam eat.”
I had to admit, it was nice having Sam join us for lunch. Tony was friendly enough, but his conspiracies got on my nerves sometimes. Sam’s skepticism made it a lot easier to tolerate him.
Sam had decided to take a break from Arthur to work on himself, which Arthur surprisingly agreed to (after consulting his tarot cards).
“Sam,” I said, reaching into my pocket. “Dr. Zhang gave me your prescriptions, and I’d really recommend you continue with them.”
Sam hesitated for a moment, then reached out his hand and took the pills from me.
“You think I need them?” he asked quietly.
“It’s not a mat
ter of need,” I said. “Abruptly stopping any psychiatric drug could drastically worsen your mental health. If you’d like, I’d be happy to work on a taper plan with you.”
He nodded and swallowed the pills with a sip of water.
We spent the next half hour joking around and entertaining Tony’s conspiracies. This wasn’t exactly how I imagined my life going, but they were good company, and friendships would probably be the best way to pass time around here.
Sam was looking sweaty and a bit agitated, so I encouraged him to drink more water.
“I think the Earth probably is flat,” I said to Sam, giving him a quick wink as I pushed my water to him. “If you think about it, it really would be the easiest way for the government to —”
Suddenly his face went white as a ghost, and his eyes locked onto something behind me.
I turned around and saw Arthur enter the cafeteria with his two friends.
“It’s okay,” I comforted Sam. “He can’t hurt you anymore.”
Sam’s breathing became stilted and rapid again.
I stood up to join him on the other side of the table.
“You’re going to be okay,” I said again, just like the broom closet.
He shook his head. “I feel so bad. Like my heart is a screaming fireball — but it can’t get out of my chest.”
“That’s okay,” I said. “Allow the fireball to be there.”
“No, you don’t GET IT!” he shouted.
I raised my eyebrows, taken aback. “Why don’t we—”
“Something is wrong inside of my body!” he cried. “Feel my pulse!”
I touched two fingers to his neck, long enough to feel his heart racing well beyond any healthy rate.
“This is a normal reaction to a trigger—”
“DON’T TOUCH ME!” He spun around and bit my hand — hard.
“What the hell,” I muttered under my breath, shaking out my hand.
Sam had never been violent toward me. This was unlike any side I had seen to him. Was this the third alter that Dr. Zhang had warned about?
“Ethan?” I asked gently.
“What the FUCK are you talking about?” he said. “I’m SAM!”
At this point, the other inmates were starting to stare. It was only a matter of time before the guards intervened. So I hurriedly grabbed Dr. Zhang’s notes from my pocket and scanned for the grounding safe words.