Who: Jack and Toby What: A therapy session Where: Toby's home When: Waaaaaay backdated. Shh. Warnings/Rating: Fears, discussion of mental illness.
For all his life, even before he became a psychiatrist, Jack had never been a proponent for drinking away one's problems. It was destructive and in most cases, impeded any true healing, which is why he limited himself to the drinks he'd already had after he spoke to Toby. The rest of the day was spent with water, quite a bit of it, until all that was left was the creeping feeling that the warmth of the bourbon had managed to numb.
There was no numbness when he left his trailer that evening, stopping to give Spot a kiss on furry head and a scratch under his chin. "I'll be back soon boy," he promised. Could he keep it? Schizophrenia was a difficult disease to treat, but early detection widened that range. Recovery wasn't an option once it happened, but treatment-- sweat slick palms slid too easily over the driver's wheel of his car once he got inside. No. Diagnosis first.
But there was no question in his mind that if a diagnosis was made, that's what it would be. The moment he'd come back, he'd known. He'd heard the words on the lips of the families of patients, even said so of himself about his mother: it was like living with a monster and you never knew if you were going to have the person or what they had become. As a child of a schizophrenic, he had a higher than average possibility of developing the same disease that had stolen his early childhood and his mother away.
He wiped his hands on his jeans and tried again, the car turning over easily, steering wheel gripped firmly without his hands slipping. What he was hadn't compared with what he'd done -- and if he thought about that, he was going to have to pull over and empty his stomach of what little contents it had. He didn't want to hurt people. He wanted to help. And right now he couldn't help anyone before he helped himself.
Those thoughts, the worries about his impending consult, they all had to be pushed away. He focused on his breathing -- chest rising, inhale, feel it in your stomach, in your fingertips, exhale slowly -- using the same methods he taught his patients before he pulled out of the driveway. Focus. Here. Now. It took less time than he expected before he was in front of the apartment building and parking his car. One last inhale, then he was out and heading for the stairs.
As promised, Toby had brought food back with him. Deli sandwiches and some cold salads, something light and easy that would help, at least, to counteract the Las Vegas warmth. And, they would keep easily, since he got home nearly an hour before Jack was to arrive. That time was spent cleaning up the spare bedroom, the futon, the easy chair, someplace quiet they could retreat to to talk where the distractions of the outside world were far away.
It wasn't often that he heard that he had considered mostly stable that rattled, but Jack had certainly had that tone to his voice. And it wasn't everyday that someone asked, without prompting, for a consult. He didn't know Jack that well, didn't know his history, the life that he had led, but he knew it wasn't something the other man would ask for without having a good reason to do so. So Toby would give him whatever time he needed, all the attention he'd needed, and he would do his best to help his fellow psychiatrist.
He heard the creak of the stairs before he heard any sort of knock, and as large of a place as the Villas were, his part of the building didn't see too many visitors. So he rose to open his door, peering out in a way he hoped didn't look too strange or suspicious, but it proved that it didn't really matter because that was Jack coming up the stairs. "I thought I heard someone out here," he said, stepping out into the hallway to meet him. "Glad to see you made it here safely, Jack."
His history, specifically in relation to his mother, wasn't something that Jack talked about anymore. To a large part, it was public, with newspaper articles about when he'd been taken as a child and his return later, but for the most part, it was something that remained within his family and between him and his child psychiatrists. For the most part, it wasn't anyone else's business except his own.
And before the party, it had only been something in the back of his mind. Now it was at the fore, blaring, sirens screaming, every sense set to high alert. Was he having paranoid thoughts? Delusional ones? Grandiose? Yet he couldn't accurately pin point if he had any, which meant that he needed someone else. That someone was Toby. "Hey," he said as he took the last two steps and held his hand out for a shake. He could still smile and he did, but it wasn't with the usual happiness. "Wasn't too hard to get here. How was your day?"
Toby took the offered hand in his own, a firm shake and a smile of his own by way of greeting. "My day was routine, if anything, which has proved to be good with everything else that's been going on. Kind of nice to have a day at the hospital that doesn't end in some kind of crisis or disaster. More of those are needed for this world, I think. But that's enough about me. Come on in." He stepped back to gesture Jack in, closing the door behind him.
Toby's apartment was spacious and comfortable, though minimally decorated save for the massive bookshelf that took up the majority of one wall. It was filled with books on psychiatry, an entire section devoted to schizophrenia, journals, papers, everything he could find on it, a professional interest and a personal, vested interested melded together. But otherwise, the furniture was simple, comfortable, but sparse, and it was truly the way Toby liked it. He didn't spend enough time here to really spend a lot of money or energy in making the place more him, and he had no intention of ever doing so. "I've got sandwiches and some salad if you want to eat now. Or we can get right down to it, if you wish." The decision was up to Jack, his focus on Jack given everything that was going on.
It was almost strange, a little surreal to be in this position -- the position of the patient -- rather than the therapist. How often had he turned the conversation from himself and back to the person who paid for his time? "I, no thank you, I'm good." He'd eaten an apple before he came -- it hadn't been much but he thought anything more might unsettle his stomach further. Jack had tried eating more earlier, something to soak up the acid in the pit of his belly, but he had only managed some crackers.
He noticed the books on the wall, wondered how many of them were in his own books lining the walls of his office and treatment rooms. That's not why he was here, though part of him wished it was nothing more than a professional discussion on schizophrenia. "I don't want to take up much of your time, so we'll just get started." He took a seat on one of the chairs, neutral toned and comfortable. "Do you want to start with my history first?"
Toby didn't push the offer of food, instead taking a seat near Jack, hands laced together as he leaned forward, elbows balanced on his knees. It was a familiar, comfortable pose, one he had adopted for half of his life, it felt like. "You start wherever you want to start, Jack," Toby offered, his voice even and neutral in tone. "And you don't have to worry about my time. I'm offering it to you. You're not taking it." The corner of his mouth lifted in a small smile, and then he was all attention and focus, listening in a way that couldn't be faked. He did truly care about the other man, for his well-being and his health, and offering him his time was only natural.
It was freely given, yes, but that didn't mean Jack would take more than necessary. Though that might all change depending on the outcome of things. He'd have to wait and see, no use thinking about all the what ifs until there was a confirmed diagnosis. "Last night -- something happened. I was cognizant of it, but unable to stop it," he started, focusing on the wall above Toby's right shoulder. It was easier that way, he'd found, to look there instead of directly at his therapists whenever he was talking. "There's a history of paranoid schizophrenia on my mother's side, she's currently in a psychiatric facility receiving treatment. No known remarkable history of mental illness or defect on my father's side." Inhale. Breathe, Jack. He never liked talking about this time in his life, but he knew that he needed to right now. "My mother abducted me when I was two. She believed everyone was after her, including my father. It took three years for them to catch her and bring me home." Three years of living in the back of a station wagon and hotel rooms, living off whatever could be bought from McDonald's or from the nearest convenience store. Everything in cans, usually uncooked because they were always on the move, and no talking, no games with other children and to this day, he didn't own a single can of anything in his home.
He knew about the men that she left in the hotel rooms, how they always ate a little better when they'd been around. Chicken McNuggets instead of a plain hamburger. He'd been older when he found out what else she'd done to them, the string of bloody murders that she'd left in their wake. "Last night I attacked a young man in a garden," he whispered. "He's alive or was when he left." Unthinking, his hand pressed to his own side where the knife had gone in. There wasn't even any bruising there, but that didn't change that he could remember how it felt as it sank into his flesh.
Hearing Jack's story, with enough similarities to his own life that he had to stamp down those feelings and lock them away in a box, was strange, and all too familiar. The children of those afflicted with schizophrenia never had the best childhood. Something always happened, something that would serve to rob them of the contentment a good childhood should have brought them, but what it gave people like Jack, people like him, was an ability to survive, to be strong when others weren't.
Toby didn't take any notes as Jack spoke, his attention wholly upon him, hands clasped together as he listened. When things came down to the events that had brought Jack here, Toby found himself leaning forward, intent. "Jack," Toby began, his voice just as quiet and neutral as it had been before. "What happened in the party stayed at the party. No injuries carried over, and I'm speaking from experience. And what you did there-" Toby paused, considering his words carefully. "What you did there was not wholly by choice. The hotel did things to us. To you, to me, to my brothers, to our friends here. And you can't allow yourself to feel so much guilt over that." But he was sure it wasn't just guilt that was playing up; there was something else here much deeper. "Can you tell me why you attacked him? What happened to lead up to this?"
Was it the attack that bothered him so much? No, it had bothered him, but it wasn't what had led him to bypass Winnie and V and head straight for Toby. His gaze dropped down to his lap, hands leaving the arms of the chair so he could press his fingertips together. "I was a paranoid monster," he said hollowly, the worst fears come true for him, for anyone who knew what it was like to live with a person in the grips of schizophrenia. "He was digging in a pot and I thought he had something of mine. I hated the thought that he did, that he would take it from me. I thought he would attack me, and then that he would find others to carry out his attack if he left."
Paranoia. The fear of persecution. Jack rubbed his palms together but he hadn't looked back up to Toby yet. "I finally managed to break open the pot and there was a decapitated head inside. I didn't have a face when I first came, at least I don't think I did. When the night ended, I did." He let the implication hang there for a moment before he looked up, needing that human contact of gaze to gaze. "I wore a corpse's skin as my face, Toby. So I could be human. Look human."
The phrase 'paranoid monster' rang clear for Toby, and he understood that fear, understood that worry. He had his own moments whenever he visited his mother, nightmares that someday that would be him, or it would be January in the hospital, but Toby knew if he lingered too long on those worries, he would just end up in a bad place. So he pushed them aside and tried to focus on the here and now, helping those he could. And that included Jack.
He didn't say anything for the longest time, meeting Jack's gaze, holding it steady before he said anything more. "And how do you feel now?" he asked quietly, getting up for a moment to go to the kitchen, returning with a cold glass of water which he offered the other man, settling back down in his seat, one leg crossed over the other. "Do you feel that same paranoia now? Do you feel human now?"
How did he feel now? Shaken. Afraid. Some fears cut down to the very core of a person and while he did his best to move beyond those things, the night before had been a sharp, rude awakening that some things couldn't be buried. He took the glass gratefully from Toby and stared into the depths of the glass as if the answer was written on the bottom of it. It wasn't, but he lifted it up and took a slow swallow instead.
"I've never not felt human. I don't feel like anyone is out to persecute me, or that I'm feeling followed. I don't even feel like I'm being watched, though my ex likes to tease me that she's going to show up and watch me bathe outside." He managed a little smile at that at the thought of Winnie. "My caseload is the same. I got a dog almost a year ago, but I've also moved out of town." The pulling back from human contact was a sign, but had he pulled back that much? "I've been trying to go out more."
It was easy to see how Jack was feeling - it was written all over the man's face, that fear, that unsteady look as though his world had been tipped on its side. Toby recognized it, had seen it on his own face at times. He waited until Jack had settled again, taken a drink, gathered his thoughts a little more before he spoke again. "Most of that's good. No paranoia, no worry that you're being followed or watched. But I have to ask if something happened that prompted you to move out of town." That was something strange, and Toby knew how easy it was to pull back, to draw into seclusion when things got hard; he was guilty of it, both in the past and currently.
Jack paused, still gazing into the depths of the glass as if the answer was printed on the bottom. Was there a reason? "Do you remember the murders at the beginning of the year? There was a meth house, two houses down from mine that blew up. I didn't know it was a meth house. Spot was glued to my side the rest of the night, but... I didn't want to be that close to anything like that. If I was that close and didn't know it, what else could I miss?"
That bespoke paranoia, but was it beyond the realm of what a normal person would fear? Meth houses were inherently dangerous, from the mix of volatile chemicals used to make the drug to the crime that it could bring into an area. He rubbed at the bridge of his nose. Moving into another area had been a necessity, but out of the city proper? "The guy I have, he likes being outdoors, prefers to be deep in nature. The chance came and I didn't think twice about it." He paused, then added quietly, "I love it out there. I miss being around people, but I love being out there."
Toby gave a nod at the mention of the murders earlier in the year; he did remember them, though they were far enough away from where he called home that they were simply nothing more than the usual urban violence that had filled his life as long as he could remember. But he could understand how that would affect a person. Meth houses, as the news had indicated, were nothing to joke around with, imposing a high level of danger on all those in the vicinity. The paranoia that Jack expressed was nothing out of the ordinary, and Toby didn't believe it spoke a deeper, more dangerous issue.
"I don't think there's anything wrong with that. Not your reason for leaving, nor your reason for staying. Those kind of environments - it's an escape from the chaotic nature of the city, I think. Now, if you were to seclude yourself out there and never come back into town, I might get worried. As it is, I think it's fine." Toby leaned back in his seat, hands resting on his legs. "Do you keep a journal of your feelings and thoughts? I have, ever since my own mother was diagnosed."
"No, I still come back into town," Jack said with a small upward quirk of his lips. Beyond work, he came in to do his shopping and to take Spot to one of the local dog parks. He wanted to keep the pup well socialized to other dogs, since there were few enough creatures out where they lived beyond lizards and insects and the occasional rabbit.
"Not usually," he admitted, glancing up from the bottom of the glass to look at Toby. "I'm happy. There are small variations, when I'm concerned about a patient or a friend, but if you ask me about my mood, it's," he took a deep breath, concentrated, "Good. Positive. I'm not angry. I'm not sad. I'm not worried. My life is good."
As Jack explained how things were usually, Toby let a small smile make its way to his lips. "Then I don't think you have anything to worry about. Everything you're describing is perfectly normal, even if the party and what happened there was not. But really, was anything at that party normal?" Toby reached up to scratch at the back of his neck, remembering his own time there and how strange and painful it had been. "I believe the hotel has a way of bringing out the things we don't like to think about. The skeletons in our closet, so to speak." It had in his, at least. There was a long sigh and he dropped his hand back to his side. "My prescription is to make sure you get some sleep and do something you enjoy to relax and let go of some of the stress. I don't believe you're having a schizophrenic episode, though."
Before this party, Jack had never been to one at the hotel. He'd talked to his patients that had been though, had listened to what had happened to them, the horror and the recoiling from having one's secrets so openly on display. His was a deep rooted fear and he hadn't been eager to talk about it, not even with the man that had been in the room that night. "It was my first." And hopefully his last. "It's not so much something I don't want to think about, but something I never want to become." Angry. Paranoid. Monstrous. A little smile came at Toby's prescription, but Jack knew the other man was right. He still needed to hear it though, needed that assurance that he wasn't becoming what he was most afraid of. "Thank you, Toby."
"I would say that we should hope that it's your last, but I'm not going to hold my breath about that." Toby gave him a tight smile as he got up to his feet, extending a hand to the other man. "And it's the least I can do. I know you'd do the same for me if I asked." And there was a lot of comfort in knowing that he had someone there who could see things from that perspective, that knew how scary it was having that axe of schizophrenia hanging over one's head. "Let's go have a sandwich. You look like you could use something to eat after all of that."