Intake
Note: Trigger Warning for discussion of suicidality.
Owen was admittedly distracted by the obvious beauty of his new psychiatrist. She had the kind of hair only seen in magazines. Every strand of golden hair held perfectly in place in a sleek and professional ponytail. Her hair was curled too, adding a touch of femininity. She adjusted her glasses and shifted her legs in this elegant way. Crossed them so tidily. He would bet his left testicle that her panties matched her bra every single day of the week.
“Have you ever had thoughts of harming yourself?”
She looked at him in that way that only therapists, priests, and mothers could. In that non-judgmental but soul piercingly empathetic way that made his blood boil. He didn't know where anyone got off looking at him like that.
“Yes.” He answered curtly, his gaze skirting away from her when he did. His leg started shaking, bouncing up and down. It wasn’t a nervous tic so far as he was concerned, but really a marker of his growing impatience with answering the same questions over and over again to different strangers with pretentious degrees.
His answer was followed by a silence he wasn’t used to. There was no clicking of a pen, no scratching on a paper. This one took notes on an iPad. She was a bit upgraded from his last psychiatrist who always took notes by hand. She tapped her finger on the bluish screen with her index finger while the other three splayed out.
Owen had firmly made up his mind that he hated everything about her. Uppity bitch.
“Have you ever had thoughts of -”
“Suicide? Yes. Of course.” He interrupted her aggressively. “Look doc, I know how this goes. So here’s the answers to your pressing and dramatic questions.” His eyes rolled and voice modulated with his clear disdain for the process.
The doctor pulled the glasses from her face and folded them into her hand. She rested the iPad on the arm of her chair and placed the glasses on top. Her hands settled one on top of the other on her leg. She could tell he wasn’t going to let her lead the interview. She would nonetheless give him her undivided attention. She could tell he didn't like the iPad. She had watched his nose wrinkle up in disgust when she used it.
“I passively think of death probably on a daily basis. I rarely, but do sometimes, have more...what would you say...active thoughts of killing myself. No I don’t have a current plan to kill myself. But if I did I would put a bullet through my head. Yes, I have guns in the home. I’m law enforcement what do you expect? No, I will not be getting rid of my personal weapons, nor will I be resigning my position with the FBI.”
A brief pause before he continued.
“Yes, I do have thoughts of harming other people. My work involves investigating very bad people. I want to harm them. Outside of the context of my job, I only think about murdering assholes who piss me off. Like the kind of person who knows they need to change lanes and then they forcibly slide right in front of you only when they’re in a turn lane that they had been warned about 50 feet ago. You know those kind of people? Or the kinds that blatantly cut you in line.”
He shifted his weight to the side to fish a folded piece of paper from his rear pocket. He unfolded it and leaned forward, thrusting it at the doctor who took her time accepting the paper. Even her way of moving annoyed him. He wiggled the paper at her to hurry her up.
“Here’s a list of all the medications I’ve ever been on and the diagnoses I’ve been given. That should make your job easier.”
The doctor refused to be harried by him anymore than she already had. Slow and deliberate characterized the way she took up her glasses again, unfolded them, placed them on her nose, gave him a long hard look before lowering her gaze to the paper. Her patient was fidgeting and she gazed at him over the top of her glasses to find that he was pushing more papers at her. She was loath to receive them from such an unnecessarily grouchy man but she nonetheless did and kept her opinions to herself.
“I printed off one of those self-report inventories and filled it out this morning. So we can skip the rest of the bullshit and you can fill out your chart from that.”
She barely had time to look over what he had given her before he was pushing himself up from the chair facing hers and moving off towards the door.
“Hold on a second, Mr. Hart.” She said as she placed the papers to the side. “We’re not finished with the assessment. I haven’t completed the interview.”
“I gave you all you need to make a provisional diagnosis.” He snapped back entirely too quickly.
“Why are you avoiding the intake assessment?” It was the first adversarial question she had asked him. The others had been purely routine. Questions asked of every patient.
“I’m not answering any more of those fucking questions. How many times do I have to go through this shit? Every time I get a new doctor?”
“I asked why you are refusing to cooperate.” She pressed unsatisfied with his brief tirade.
“And I told you I am sick of answering the same questions over and over.”
“That isn’t acceptable, Mr. Hart.”
“I need refills of the meds on that list. I use Family Pharmacy on 54th.”
“I won’t be prescribing anything until I complete my assessment.”
“I guess I’ll just go fucking blow my brains out then.”
“Is that a threat?”
“Maybe it is.”
“I would like you to contract for safety. I want you to promise that if you intend to harm yourself that you’ll call myself or 911 before you do anything.”
“I’m not signing those stupid contracts. Are you so naive to think a promise on a piece of paper is going to stop a bullet?”
“It has certainly saved the lives of my patients in the past.”
He scoffed derisively and turned towards the door.
“Mr. Hart I cannot let you leave after the statements you’ve made. I cannot be certain that you are not an imminent danger to yourself. If you take another step I will call security and have them escort you to the emergency department for a hold.”
Owen whirled around at the threat of hospitalization and stared angrily at the doctor that dared defy him. “You can’t do that.”
“It would be for your safety. You may have walked all over your psychiatrists in the past but I cannot allow that. I am unable to adequately treat you if I cannot make a diagnosis. I need to complete the intake assessment and I need you to contract for safety.”
He had been backed into a corner. She seemed serious at least in her threat to hospitalize him. He was skeptical whether she really cared if he intended to kill himself or not. She just wanted to win at whatever power games they were playing at. And she had the trump card and the prescription pad. His nostrils flared before he moved past her and dumped himself back into his chair like a child having a temper tantrum.
She was so infuriatingly measured in the way she returned to her chair. Polished in the way she smoothed her skirt over the back of her legs in the act of sitting down. So stately and refined when she crossed her legs and took up the iPad.
A slender hand petted the papers she had given him. Fussy in the way they tried to smooth out all the wrinkles. “Thank you for this information, Mr. Hart that is very helpful. I will look over it and add it to your file. I’ll have copies made so you can keep your originals.” She paused taking a moment to review what she had recorded in the electronic chart on her tablet. “Now..Let’s continue. You said you work for the FBI? I see that this treatment was recommended by the agency?”
Her voice sounded too much like the school counselor who had asked him why he beat up that one kid. He bristled at the sound of it. His mood had long since turned black and soured with bitter resentment towards this Maeve Reed, M.D.
Bitch, I'm limited edition.
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