TIME WARP: Time for a Change? (Sean)

[Damia Owens]

It was the beginning of February, 2005. By the end of the month Damia would be able to say she’d been at Hammel for a year. That was a whole year since her powers had started, since she had left the… hospital. A year and she had nothing to show for it. No progress with her powers and none with herself.

Damia was far beyond exhausted. She couldn’t tell what was what. Powers. Side effects. Her own mind. It was a roller coaster and she was struggling just to hold on. So she had given up. She threw out her medication and retreated to her room. She skipped classes and ‘meetings’ with the school’s psychiatrist. She didn’t eat. She didn’t sleep. Damia could have gotten away with it. She was positive. If only the nights weren’t so hard.

Now that she was sitting outside of Dr. Neville’s office she didn’t want to think about what had brought her here. Damia was too tired. Her long hair was frayed from her clawing fingers and she was pretty sure the sore spots on her left arm had marks that would match her teeth. As she glanced up at the two adults who hovered nearby she was glad to have on long sleeves. It was bad enough that they had brought her here this early in the morning… that someone had witnessed her panic attack.

Taking her gaze away from the receptionist and her dorm monitor, Damia felt her stomach curl. She had a feeling it was before most staff members usually arrived. Had they called Dr. Neville to come in early? They were going to make a big deal out of it. She knew it. If only Damia had been able to keep things in just a little bit more. Then she could be back in her room. Alone.

[Dr. Sean Neville]

Sean had a tendency to come to work early and stay late. It wasn’t required by his employment contract, and he wasn’t paid by the hour, so all it did was dilute the “value” of his pay, but he hadn’t taken the job at Hammel with the aim of becoming rich. He preferred the actual value of his work, which was to help students who had difficulties with their powers. He wanted to do for them what had been done for him.

After fifteen years, he thought he was doing a fair job. Of course, reminiscing about his time at Hammel caused his stomach to clench a bit. He missed Robert so much.

The psychiatrist hadn’t been at Hammel very long this morning, long enough only to pour himself a cup of coffee and begin on his paperwork, when he had been notified that there was a student who needed to see him. Considering the early hour, it implied a nightmare or another such problem. Common enough, but he still wished that no students had to suffer such stresses.

Holding the coffee mug in one hand, he opened the door to his office to greet the girl and the faculty member. Rather, members, as it was both the Hammel receptionist and a dormitory monitor who had accompanied her. After speaking to them briefly about the situation and assuring them that he would handle it, he turned his attention to the girl sitting in the waiting area outside of the offices.

“Damia?” He inquired, smiling softly at her. He gestured towards his office with the hand not carrying the coffee mug. “Please come with me in here so we can chat a bit.”

[Damia Owens]

Her whole body stiffened as the door to his office opened. Damia hadn’t realized Dr. Neville was already here. She had expected to have to wait longer, the longer the better. Her heart picked up pace as they spoke amongst themselves. It was about her, the state she had been in, and that made it final. She had to talk. No more avoidance or little chatter.

Run- There was nowhere to go, but that didn’t matter. The desire was strong. It pressed on her. She felt frozen, but all she had to do was make that first break. That first break, and then she would be free. Damia willed herself to move but the sound of her name caught her attention. Her gaze broke from the exit and turned to Dr. Neville.

Damia didn’t move at first. It took a moment, but she stood up slowly and took a slight step forward. She entered his office without resistance, stealing just one final glance at her escape route.

Once inside, Damia didn’t have to be asked to take a seat or make herself comfortable. Damia knew how this worked. She walked straight over to her chair and sat. Leaning back, she pulled her legs up so that she had to look over her knees to see him. Her arms were kept tucked up against her body. She felt herself relax a little at the familiarity of the situation. However, when Damia glanced up at Dr. Neville her heart sank. Even after a year at Hammel where she was expected to come here and talk to him, she wished it was Dr. Barrett across from her. Not Dr. Neville.

[Dr. Sean Neville]

Sean assured the dorm monitor that he would return Damia safely once their session was over. He then walked with the girl into his office, and he shut the door behind them. While it was unlikely that anyone would be around to overhear them at this early hour, this was a matter of decorum; she was entitled to privacy no matter the hour of the day.

With the door shut, he turned around to find that she had already taken a seat in one of the chairs by his desk. There were also the chairs in the back off the office, as well as the sofa, all available for her use if she so desired. “Are you comfortable?” He asked her, taking in her posture. It was defensive, drawing her limbs up into herself, but that was to be expected. He didn’t expect her to be happy about an involuntary session this early in the morning, particularly not given the circumstances that had brought her to faculty attention in the first place; still, he wanted her to be as comfortable as possible.

He then settled in his chair across from her. He took a sip from his coffee, before setting it aside on a coaster and offering her his full attention. When Damia had first transferred to Hammel, he had been given a copy of her medical records, including everything from Doctor Barrett. It was a difficult situation, and he empathized with the plight of psychiatric diagnoses.

“Your dorm monitor said that you had a panic attack this morning,” he said, his voice still gentle. “Would you like to tell me about it?”

[Damia Owens]

Looking at him, Damia didn’t answer. She wouldn’t exactly call it comfortable. The build of the chair and its position in the room left her feeling exposed, but that was a good thing. Damia didn’t want to feel comfortable. At the same time, she was glad to have her legs and the desk between them for some sense of security.

Then he spoke again. Damia stiffened at the mention of her panic attack. She felt her lungs tense mid-breath. She shook her head but it was only a slight movement. Damia tried to force the air out of her lungs but the tightness of her muscles resisted. There was alarm in her but she tried to hide it. Her right hand took hold of her left wrist. It was only a fraction of what she had felt before but it was enough to scare her and it was the fear that brought even more anxiety. Her grip on her wrist tightened as she fought to keep it in. This time she would no matter how hard it got.

Damia broke eye contact with Dr. Neville, forcing herself to keep as plain an expression as possible. What she didn’t realize was how poorly she hid it from her face.

[Dr. Sean Neville]

Admittedly, it wasn’t the single-most comfortable item of furniture in the office, but Sean wasn’t in the habit of forcing students to choose a specific seat for sessions. It was better to have them choose their own and to take his cues from their choice. Besides, she could always move later, if she wished. Unfortunately, it appeared that he would have to take many of his cues from her behavior, as no answer to his first question was forthcoming.

More concerning was her reaction to his second question. Again, she gave no answer. She had his full attention, and he studied her body language, watching carefully as her posture became more rigid, as she trembled, and then as she grabbed her wrist to covertly check for her pulse. The psychiatrist new what an anxiety attack looked like, and it didn’t take a degree to know what was happening, given the reason she had been brought to him in the first place.

Rising from behind his desk, he moved to stand beside her. Gently, he reached out to lay his hand on her back, wishing to soothe her through physical contact. “It’s all right,” he told her, his voice soft. “Try to focus on your breathing for a moment. If you can, take a deep breath in.”

[Damia Owens]

Damia heard the sound of movement but refused to look his way. Instead, she listened to Dr. Neville’s approach, intensely aware that his attention was on her. Keep it in. Keep it in. Keep it in. She could feel his gaze… he could see what was happening. The thought brought more anxiety and she could feel it threaten to overwhelm her.

Feeling his hand on her back, Damia tensed further. Her grip increased as her fingers curled in against the skin. She tried to concentrate on the point where her nails bit into her wrist but she couldn’t focus. There was only the awareness of his gaze and the touch of his hand.

He tried to tell her it was okay, to breathe, but Damia shook her head as firmly as she could manage. No, no, no, no, no-. She couldn’t. The anxiety would break through. She’d lose control. That was fine. Just not here - not now. Not in front of him.

The thought brought new fear and her thoughts started to cascade. Damia closed her eyes and brought her hands to her head. She shook her head again but it didn’t stop the thoughts. Her breath came at last - shallow, sharp gasps as she felt her heart race. Desperate to keep the inevitable to herself, Damia broke free of the chair and backed away. Stop, she tried to tell herself, but as her control faltered she saw the lights in the room flicker. Her eyes went wide. “No.” Not again. They flickered again as she dropped to the ground but the anxiety had already won.

[Dr. Sean Neville]

When she broke away from him and darted out of her chair deeper into the office, Sean didn’t go after her. It was obvious that the anxiety attack was in full force now, and he didn’t want to worsen it by making her feel as though she was being chased or caged. Instead, he moved to sit in the chair beside the one she had occupied a moment again. He turned it so that they were facing each other, but he didn’t go after her.

The lights around them flickered, but the psychiatrist was unconcerned. The worst that could happen is that the bulbs would break, and they would find themselves plunged into semi-darkness; semi because the morning light shone through the window as backdrop. Folding his hands in his lap, he leaned forward; his expression conveyed understanding, because truly he did understand.

He was the last person on Earth who had the right to complain about others having panicked reactions to their powers. Thirty-five years later and some of the memories remained as fresh in his mind as if they had occurred only last week.

“I know it might sound patronizing, but it will be all right,” he told her, his voice as gentle as his expression. “It can be overwhelming, but it won’t be forever, if you remember it’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

[Damia Owens]

Damia clenched herself into a ball and willed it to end. She could handle the anxiety, or so she believed. After all, she had chosen it. It was just the situation. Caught and dragged here – having someone bare witness, trying to help her when she didn’t want help. It wasn’t fair. All she wanted was to be left alone.

There was a long moment of silence after he spoke as her racing mind struggled to put enough thoughts together to respond. ”I’m fine,” she said. It was supposed to be a shout, but her lungs were unable to project the air like she had wanted and her voice cracked under the pressure. The lights flickered again.

In frustration, Damia quickly looked about herself for something to throw. Fortunately for Sean, there was nothing appropriate in arm’s reach, but that just made her more upset. She ground the heal of her foot against the floor and turned her right hand on her hair. The other hand was brought to cover her mouth but as she strained against the anxiety she found herself biting into the side of her finger.

Again she pushed the light back against the bulbs, but this time she also pushed some of the sunlight back from the windows. Stop-stop-stop, she told herself again, closing her eyes and shaking her head again. Moving her second hand to the opposite shoulder, Damia tried to assert herself again. ”It’s fine-I’m fine.”

[Dr. Sean Neville]

“I know it isn’t easy,” Sean told her, his voice sympathetic. While he didn’t suffer from any psychiatric diagnosis, these coping difficulties were familiar to him, and not merely because of his job. Being a teenage telepath, recently come into his powers, had been equally difficult: frustrating, overwhelming, isolating, shameful...the list went on.

He heard the thought about wanting to throw something. It wasn’t an uncommon impulse, and he was also a little unorthodox in that way. He wouldn’t encourage her to throw something at him, but he did have a tool in the closet she might find useful. As such, he asked, “Do you want to hit something?” His tone contained no judgment; it was an honest inquiry, with a potential solution implied as an undertone.

She could refuse, of course, and he wouldn’t encourage her more than that. But the offer was on the table.

Until then, he would try to reassure her the old-fashioned way: through words. “I’m sure you’ve heard it before from professionals, about how they know how difficult it is. But I do understand.” He offered her a gentle smile, before he added, “When I was your age, I had a very difficult time of it too.”

He wouldn’t lay claim to the same experiences, but it had been a difficult time in his life, and he wasn’t ashamed to admit that.

[Damia Owens]

Did she want to hit something? No! Yes… maybe? Damia didn’t know. Her thoughts caught on his question, but the lack of an immediate answer only fuelled her aggravation. Within moments her mind skipped past it. His lack of judgment and the offer were entirely lost to her.

All she knew was the frustration driven by the anxiety. Her mind clung to it and crowded out all other thought. She could feel it, physically, swell over her. It was a cold, dense sensation that she couldn’t even begin to discribe. Damia heard his voice again but a haze had started to form over his words… dulled them. So much so that she almost missed Dr. Neville’s reassurance. The last part, however, managed to get through.

Damia didn’t say anything but her eyes went to his. There was accusation in her gaze. He was lying, trying to deceive her, manipulate her. It was cruel of him. There was no way he could understand. No one knew what she felt… what it was like… How real. How intense. How hard it was.

The thoughts came so fast that Damia couldn’t keep up, however, there was something hidden underneath, a hope that hurt. Maybe she wasn’t alone. The sensation still held her, but Damia’s breath finally came to her a little less strained.

[Dr. Sean Neville]

Since she didn’t answer his question about wanting to hit something, and her thoughts were confused on that, Sean simply let it go. If she wanted to revisit that later, there would be plenty of opportunity to do so.

For the moment, the psychiatrist remained in his chair with his attention focused on her. When she made eye contact, he returned her gaze steadily. He wanted to demonstrate that he wasn’t hiding anything from her and that he was telling the truth. He did understand.

Not only did he understand what it felt like to be in this position, but he also understood the concern that she might never get better. He remembered quite clearly the confusion about what was causing the problem; it was different, of course, because his symptoms had been purely related to his powers, but that didn’t make the situation easier or better understood. There had also been a far greater stigma about mental illness back then, such that nobody wanted to even talk about it, perish the thought.

“When I first developed my telepathy, it was the most intense and nerve-wracking experience I’d ever had,” he explained to her, his voice soft, sympathetic, genuine. “I never had a moment of silence, because I had to share my mind, myself, with everyone around me. There were times when I had no energy, and others when I desperately needed sanctuary.”

[Damia Owens]

Damia felt her conviction waver under his steady gaze and it wasn’t long before for her eyes broke contact. She searched for something else to look at but her focus remained on him. It felt like defeat. Dr. Neville had caught her attention. Still, now that he had, Damia’s anxiety began to ease up.

Her brow furrowed a little at his story. Damia didn’t see why his telepathy would be relevant. Was she expected to understand what it was like for him to share his mind with everyone around? It sounded… crowded. But Damia didn’t know how to compare that to the isolation she felt. She felt a constant wall between herself and others. She couldn’t imagine what it would be like to be that connected to other people.

However, his words did spark some fresh thoughts. ”What does it… sound like?” Damia gestured to her head a little, assuming he would understand that she meant her own mind.

Damia may not have understood the purpose behind his story but some of what he had said seemed to get through. She couldn’t help but wonder what it might have been like to have his powers. At first she wanted to say it would have been easier… but knowing how hard things were already she started to second-guess that assumption.

One thought stuck, however… the need for sanctuary. ”…Were you able to get it…?” The answer had to be yes, but Damia couldn’t see a way. For him or for herself.

[Dr. Sean Neville]

Sean knew that it wasn’t precisely the same situation, but he had hoped that some aspect of his experiences would resonate with her. One needn’t be a telepath to empathize with a telepath’s adjustment problems. Just as he didn’t need to have her diagnosis and ability to empathize with her anxiety.

And, with the question, it seemed that something had resonated, or at least piqued her curiosity. It was a starting point for dialogue, and thus the psychiatrist would go from there. The question was common enough, but he didn’t mind answering. As such, while maintaining eye contact, he answered, “It sounds like you. Like your voice.”

That had always been the way his telepathy had functioned, creating a cacophony of voices absent his mental shields.

The psychiatrist answered her other question with an affirmative nod. “Yes, I did. It took a lot of time and energy, but I had a trainer that I trusted. He would let me spend time in his office when I needed the time away, and he worked with me to keep me healthy.”

Sean then offered her another smile, hoping that he could nudge her a bit towards opening up to him. If not at the moment, then at least committing to the possibility in the future. “If you want or need someone like that, I’m here for you.”

[Damia Owens]

If it sounded like her voice then she must be particularly noisy to him. Damia almost apologized but then realized that he could probably hear it coming. Which meant he heard that as well… and that – and that – and that… and for that matter, all of her thoughts. Embarrassment welled inside her.

Damia wished she hadn’t asked. It should have been obvious he could hear her thoughts but now she couldn’t stop thinking about it. Did he hear everything? What was it like when she couldn’t even keep up herself? It must sound like chaos. At least, that was the only word she had for it.

The embarrassment grew into resentment. Was that why he brought this up, because he could hear the chaos? The way he spoke of trust… and health. He was accusing her of being unhealthy. Well, that wasn’t his business. That was her problem and Damia was determined to deal with it her way – by giving up. And he could just leave her alone. They all could.

Couldn’t he tell that all she wanted was to suffer alone? But even as she thought it, her gaze dropped and Damia felt her chest tighten again. It hurt to be alone. Damia quickly found herself wishing her thoughts would get so far away from her that she could lose herself entirely. There had to be a place on the other side where nothing mattered.

It was a horrible thought but, she hoped he heard it out of spite. Maybe then he’d stop judging.