My Life with Death

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

 "...You know, as agents, we didn't have much time for our private lives. We spend most of the year at work catching bad guys, like New Year's Day, Valentine's Day, July 4th, Christmas, and our daughter's birthday. Certain risks are associated with this kind of work, both minor and major – divorce, quarrels, separation, injury, and death. One loses the most beautiful moments of life, and that is perhaps worse than wounds, gunshots, and...," I answered dejectedly.

I was sitting on the couch in a small room - quite dark for my taste - across from the psychologist, looking at me strangely and constantly writing something down in a notebook. I felt contrite. I felt like a test subject, like someone small and weak. Like being interrogated - but in the opposite role than I usually do - and that made me nervous.

"How long have you had PTSD?" he asked.

"Does it matter?" I retorted.

"Yes," he added.

"How long have you had PTSD, Agent?" he repeated the sentence.

"Why are you asking me if you know?"

"I want you to say it... and out loud," he emphasized.

"I don't know... 20 years," I answered uncertainly. "I can also ask you something. Why are you asking me that when it's all written in my file?" I threw my head towards the table - next to which Dr. Stevenson was sitting in a chair - with my file on it.

A folder already written by three psychological counselors, who threw an unwanted ball at me like a child. They didn't know how to deal with me, so they offered me "better help," or I just ran away, moved, or something like that.

Ten years ago, I thought I had gotten over my mother's death. Still, after the traumatic events that happened to me, I again plunged into deep states of depression, and on top of that, paranoia was caused by PTSD (post-traumatic stress disorder) when I was shot and almost died. When I became interested in working for the FBI as a federal agent, I knew this diagnosis could complicate my professionalism, control, and reliability, which are more than necessary in such a job.

I signed an agreement to see an FBI psychological counselor (Dr. Eric Stevenson) regularly (one day a week) and talk to him about my problems, and in return, I could be a full-fledged agent with a badge and a gun.

The biggest snag has been the medication I take. Codeine for pain combined with antidepressants and antipsychotics made me an incompetent empty box, so I stopped them. It was my responsibility. I have felt perfectly healthy for years - both physically and mentally.

"Do you still have nightmares?" "Sometimes. It doesn't necessarily have to do with what happened to me. I have a demanding job. That is a fact. I practically do not sleep and stay awake only thanks to caffeine. I just investigated one case and immediately got another one," indignantly.

"What's the case?"

"Serial murders. Three victims with posthumous severed heads and headless voodoo dolls at the crime scene as a visiting card," I replied.

"Are you sure you should be investigating a serial murder?"

"What do you mean?" interrogatively. "I'm one of the best serial killers out there," I defended myself.

"I know. I read your file, so I'm asking if it's safe for you to investigate serial murders. Because it wasn't exactly a serial killer who killed your mother and then wanted to kill you too," he argued.

I didn't answer. I didn't want to discuss this topic with anyone, and certainly not with a stranger. I didn't say another word. I got up from the couch and took my bag. I didn't even look at him because of how dissatisfied I felt.