My Life with Death

Psychiatric Office of Eric Stevenson, 454 North Monroe Street, Arlington

The session with Dr. Alexis E. Stepman, December 21, 2018:

"Why do I have to come here? I'm not with the FBI anymore," I said.

Ignoring my question, he asked, "Are you taking your medication?"

"Sometimes...," I replied. "when I remember," I retorted. "Talk about your childhood..., about your mother."

"Why? Why do you keep asking me that?"

"It will help you trust me," he said. "what is your happiest childhood memory?" he asked repeatedly.

"...we went with my parents and sister to my grandmother's cottage in Maryland...," I paused.

"What happened to your mother?" he pressed for an answer.

He wanted to open my memories. Peek beneath the surface. Into the depths, where my most secret thoughts and hidden feelings.

"You know," I retorted. I wanted to avoid answering. "You know the answer. You know everything about me. Everything that's written in that folder over there."

I pointed to the sheets of paper lying on the table next to him.

"Speak..."

"She died in a car accident...," I said, tears glistening.

"How old were you?" he asked, even though he knew the answer very well.

"I was 19."

"Were you involved in that accident?"

Another stupid question, I thought. I was annoyed that he was asking me that. But he asked every time. He started each of our sessions with these nagging, personal questions.

"Yes, I was in that car. Yes, it happened on my birthday, and no, I don't have any trauma from that day, aside from the physical trauma to my head," I summed up the answers to all his future questions. I was touching the back of my head. I felt a scar that had been there for twenty years. I thought about her constantly, like the one near my heart.

He looked at me questioningly.

"Sure," sarcastically. "I forgot the last question. My whole family was in that car, and my mother died on the spot..." I remember that moment every single day. But I don't want to share the feelings that the memories evoke in me with someone I don't know. I remember how worried I was for my family. I was probably more concerned than they were about me and much more hurt. The father had broken ribs and a broken leg. The sister, who was fifteen, luckily escaped without serious injuries.

"Why did you come to me?" he asked. I looked at him in surprise.

"What?" I sighed.

"How do you feel? Are you delighted?" he asked.

"Do you psychologists know that no patient likes the question 'how are you?'"

"And yet I will ask you about her until you answer me," he emphasized. "someone wanted to kill you. You were lucky. If you hadn't left in time, you would have died."

"I die every day. That hasn't changed," strictly. "It's interesting. When you live alone, the only risk you face with this job is that you don't come home, but if you have a family, worse things can happen as you survive and they don't. Agent partnerships are scary, but family is a way to get revenge and the ability to cause pain," I added emotionally.

"You have to make a decision?" he added.

"I miss him so much... I hurt him. It hurts so much. I suffer for my actions. I hurt myself, and I have to accept the punishment. I miss her so much. I want to touch him. Kiss him. I am feeling the warmth of his body. It hurts so much...," I cried. "I want to feel safe again," desperately. "He's a monster. He is not afraid to kill, shoot, stab, or torture someone until he kills himself..."