Title: Progress
Author: isaytoodlepip
Pairing: gen, mentions of House/hallucination!Amber, past House/Stacy, pre-slash House/Wilson
Rating: M, for language and sexual content
Word Count: 5,500
Summary: "He never thought her a comfort, but he's glad she's there at that moment."
Author's Note: This is a Mayfield fic, and as such contains spoilers for the end of Season 5 and the previews for the premier of Season 6. This fic is a continuation of my Hallucination!Amber POV story, "Reception". That one was quite short so if you care to, pop over and read that first ( .net/s/5118659/1/Reception ) If you don't, I still think this is a stand alone piece. I'm hoping to write a House/Wilson sequel to it, but again, I hope this ends with a certain amount of closure. Lastly, I want to say that the second half of this piece was culled from an aborted attempt at a crossover fic with Eternal Sunshine of a Spotless Mind. If you've seen the film, you may recognize certain elements of it here, but prior knowledge of it is really not needed.
Disclaimer: This fic contains mentions of hypnosis. I have no personal experience with hypnosis, and though I recognize that the House version of hypnosis was a bit...far-fetched, it did make for great television so I'm using it here :)
The detox is slow. Responsible. And did you really think you could kick it in 24 hours? she taunts. He wants to yell at her to stop jumping on the bed. He can't afford to piss these people off, and he's vomited on the sheets twice already. But he's resolved to stop speaking to her. Booo-ring, she sighs, grinding her heels into his pillow. He finds himself staring at her pale white feet, and turns on his side. Baby, she huffs when he whimpers at the new weight on his thigh, but she collapses against him and, just when he's caught his breath, runs her fingers through his newly shorn hair. So soft, she murmurs, then laughs. Feels like that ball you had in your office. He doesn't answer, but he doesn't pull away.
They let him bathe on his own. He doesn't know why he thought it'd be supervised. Girl, Interrupted, she supplies, wrapping her arms around him. He's sure he never thought of her as a comfort, before. He's also sure that she is he and he's briefly grateful that there is nothing sexual about this moment. It doesn't matter that he's reenacting a scene from Pretty Woman, her arms and legs wrapped around him like soap-slick therapy. Doesn't matter that he can feel her wiry hair at the small of his back, can feel her nipples harden against his exposed skin. She holds him against the most vulnerable parts of herself, gently guides his head to rest against her clavicle, places her temple against his damp hair, and lets him sit in the quiet. No, he never thought her a comfort, but he's glad she's there at that moment. You always did have a soft underbelly, she coos in Stacy's voice, and then the comfort if gone. He ignores his Pavlovian response and carefully emerges from the bath. He's back in his bed before he realizes he forgot to towel off before donning his pjs.
He's opioid free after two weeks in Mayfield. Still here, she says, as if he needs the reminder. Still in pain, she adds. Isn't that what you wanted?
"Dr. Nolan has suggested bringing in a chronic pain management specialist to discuss your treatment options," Dr. Beasley tells him in one of his private sessions.
"Give it a week," he answers. He doesn't want to be in pain, no matter what she said, or what Cuddy or Wilson or any of them said, but…
I'm not going to leave you, she promises. There's a reason I'm not him.
"Greg," Beasley admonishes. "It's clear you're still experiencing an unacceptable amount of neuropathic pain. You told Jenna it was a six this morning."
I wonder how much pain is "acceptable", she grins, and he would laugh if he weren't so aware of how that would look.
"I did?" he asks instead. He knows he did. He doesn't know why he's pretending it was her.
"Why are you reluctant to pursue alternative therapies?" Beasley presses.
"Yoga? Visualizing the healing? No thanks."
"There are pharmacological options, as you well know."
"Read my history. They make me…I can't think straight."
And that is different how?
He's released from isolation and he does what he does. Only he feels everything a bit more strongly, with her by his side, alternately mocking and egging him on. She swings from the branches as he smokes beneath a sycamore tree, sighing this is nice and humming some tune he insists is unfamiliar (you know it's not). She smirks when he tries to resist going back inside, cackles when the orderlies lift him like he's nothing and carry him away, and he wonders if she has a history of insanity. That just makes her laugh harder, but back in his room he knows she'll still drape her long limbs around him at night, tell him not to worry that he feels her less and less each day. Dr. Beasley keeps badgering him to exercise his phone privileges, let Wilson know how he is. He doesn't tell her the many reasons he can't make that call.
In the parlor, she'll make requests as he sits at the beat-up upright, grimacing at the greasiness of the keys. Brown Eyed Girl, she commands, and he'll always obey. Kick his ass, and he'll obey. Go for it, and he'll obey. It's what he wants, to lose himself in his body's most basic drives. What do you know? Group therapy was good for something! Waking up alone on the sofa in an unused rec room, stomach bruised from unprompted violence and knees aching from an unexpected and uncharacteristically urgent fuck, he panics. She's not there. Neither of them. He's not used to the quiet, after a month of near-constant company, and he has no one to ask if the lipstick on his face is real. He fumbles as he pulls up his pants, rushes to the day room, and is relieved to see her leaning against the nurses' station, pointing to them as if to ask can you believe this? as they whisper about Dr. Janssen's "little indiscretion" and the potential fallout. This is awesome, she grins, sauntering over to join him, licking her thumb to wipe the proof off his face. I can't wait until we tell Wilson. And suddenly he needs to make that phone call very badly.
"You've gotta get me out of here."
"House?"
"Who else is gonna call you collect from the nut house?"
"…"
"This nut house."
"I'm surprised, that's all. It's been…almost a month. I thought… I don't know what I thought."
"Yeah, well, we all agreed it was best if they threw me in the hole for detox. I only entered gen pop last week."
"How…are you?"
"Did you miss the part where I said you have to get me out of here? This place is crazy!"
"Uh…"
"Seriously. I think I've embraced my inner monkey, just for shits and giggles. I've already started two fistfights, incited a riot, broken up a band, and I may have gotten one of my shrinks fired."
"I'm assuming from the fact that you have phone privileges that the fights weren't all that serious?"
"…"
"God. You've barricaded yourself in an office, haven't you?"
"It's safe to assume I'm non-compliant."
"House."
"Relax. I'm sure they deal with this sort of thing all the time."
"I'm guessing they've never had to deal with anyone quite like you, though."
"It's a hospital. I'm betting the guy's regained consciousness."
"You knocked him out? Why?"
"The voices made me do it."
"I'm being serious."
"So am I. Stop trivializing my pain, Wilson."
"Uh…right. Sorry. Sorry."
"Jesus. No."
"Ohhh…k. And the riot?"
"The line cooks don't have your chops."
"And the band?"
"The nutjob on keys didn't have my chops."
"And the…doctor?"
"I think it'd be more fun if you guessed."
"I think it'd be more fun if you told me."
"Time's a wastin'. I think I spy a battering ram."
"Fine. You…pointed out an egregious misdiagnosis?"
"Nope."
"I can hear you smiling. This worries me."
"It worries me that I needed to hear rumors of a disciplinary board hearing to confirm the fact that I, indeed, got me some."
"What?"
"Sex."
"What?"
"Insert tab A into slot B? And God, what a slot."
"You slept with one of your doctors?"
"She only runs group. Nothing important."
"House!"
"Right. Forgot you dig the group therapy. My bad."
"How did you…never mind. So, I take it you were caught?"
"Not exactly sure. She may have confessed. She's got a martyr thing going on."
"Has your therapist confronted you about it?"
"Confront is a strong word."
"What did he say?"
"She said something about reading intellectual interest as judgment of intrinsic value. I wasn't really paying attention. But it seems I have a thing for people who like to psychoanalyze me. Naturally, I thought of you."
"Um…thanks?"
"No problem."
"So. You're saying it's been a busy week."
"I'm saying you gotta get me out of here."
"You know I can't do that."
"I'm bored."
"And I'm sorry, but apart from the fact that you probably have some things you need to work on, you know you can't sign out AMA this time. You'll never get your license back."
"I still have my license, dip shit."
"Right. For, what, two more months? You'll be up for renewal."
"Jersey v. Jacobs. ADA says they can't revoke my license based on a diagnosis of mental illness."
"No, but they can based on behavior that mental illness causes, and you've been walking a thin line since…ever."
"Ever ever?"
"Look, don't worry about this stuff. Not yet, anyway. We'll sort it out when you come home."
"And by 'we' you don't have a certain constitutional lawyer in mind, do you? Because I think I'd rather stay here."
"I meant you, me, and Cuddy."
"I…don't think I want to talk about her."
"Ok."
"…"
"House? You ok?"
"Sure. Peachy."
"Look, can I come and visit you?"
"Don't know. I suppose it depends."
"On what?"
"Not on me."
"Oh. Right."
"I'll ask Nolan."
"Ok."
"I'm sure he'll want you up here sooner or later. Confront the problem."
"Confront is a strong word."
"Yeah."
"House. Seriously. Are you ok?"
"It's no barrel of laughs."
"No. I suppose not."
"How about we hold off on all the angst until you get here. Easier for me to deflect when it's face to face."
"Right. Too much honesty would be a shock to the system."
"Wilson?"
"Yeah?"
"Are…how is everyone else doing?"
"We're fine. Bored."
"Yeah."
"Your team thinks you're in rehab, trying out new pain management regiments."
"Sure."
"And I didn't call your mother."
"God. Forgot about her."
"Right. Well, I'll let you deal with that one."
"Thanks."
"Sure."
"Really."
"It's ok. Ask the doctor about that visit, all right?"
"Will you bring me food?"
"I'll bake you a cake."
"With a file in it?"
"Baked with love."
"Sweet."
"G'night House."
"Night, Wilson."
Wow. Great job at pretending everything's fine, she says, clapping with a demented cheerleader smile as he peers through Beasley's blinds to check if the coast is clear. He could have used the public pay phones in admit, but he was anticipating a much messier conversation.
Really, she continues, you avoided talking about anything important and you almost sounded…normal. But you know he's lying. You'll never practice medicine again. You'll be lucky if anyone offers you a consulting job. And do you really think he'll stick around if all you do is sit in your apartment, collecting on disability and taking your pills like a good little boy? We know he likes needy, not pathetic. As soon as he sees you in here, he's going to turn to the social contract, put on that persona he resents so much, and you know where that leads. He won't be able to help himself, and pretty soon you'll be the next ex-Mrs. Wilson.
"Shut the fuck up," he growls.
There are no comforting arms around him that night.
They make up a few days later, after a session in which Beasley suggested that she might not be an hallucination anymore.
"Are you telling me you can see her, too?" he'd asked. "Because if that's the case, I think we need to have a discussion with Nolan about his screening process."
"You've said that your auditory and visual hallucinations have taken on a tactile dimension."
You told her that? she'd asked, and he could swear she had been in the room with him for that conversation.
"Would you care to elaborate on that a bit?"
You tell her about the bath?
"No."
"That's fine. But you may want to consider that, rather than hallucinating, you're now engaging in some…very rich imaginative play."
Is she calling me a pooka?
"That's ridiculous."
"Greg - ."
"No. I can see her. Hear her. I know she's not really there –,"
Words can hurt, you know.
"But I'm pretty sure the fact that she blocks the light makes her more than an imaginary friend. It's not like I'm reading a script in my head."
"You only see her when you want to see her."
"I don't want to see her at all."
We both know that's not true, she'd interjected.
"You're lonely. Afraid. You need a friend and you don't have many options here."
"I think that was Dr. Janssen's line. You gonna ask me to bend over and grab my ankles, because I don't think I'm as limber as I used to be."
God, I'd pay to see that, she leered.
"Do you want to discuss Dr. Janssen?" Beasley asked.
"No." He'd had an earful from Nolan already on that subject. "I know I spread misery wherever I go."
"Did she tell you that?" Beasley asked, frowning
"Be more specific with your pronouns," both he and Amber snapped.
"Dr. Janssen."
He'd flashed on dragging his fingers through Janssen's short dark hair, sucking her tongue into his mouth and savoring the taste of mint, of maple vinaigrette and candied walnuts. Then he remembered Nolan talking about him as if he were a cancer.
"She wasn't allowed to see more, before she left," he'd answered instead.
"I see."
"You don't approve?" he'd asked, intrigued (barely) that Beasley was, for once, not toeing the party line.
"I think closure might have helped. Both of you."
"She was looking for a reason to leave," he'd shrugged, watching Amber spin round and round on the desk chair. "At least she didn't screw over someone completely hopeless."
"No one is completely hopeless here."
She is, if she really believes that, Amber snorted. Can we go yet?
"Can we go yet?"
"I want you to think about what I've said. Your system is clear of the Vicodin. Amber's appearances seem to be less emotionally disturbing to you than what you described in our initial interviews, but you're seeing her at an increased frequency. When you want to see her, for whatever reasons. I want you to start keeping a journal of what she says to you, and what you're thinking and doing before she appears. Next time, we'll talk about what role she's serving in your life."
Are you really going to narc me out for everything I say? she asks when they get back to their room.
He sits on his bed, stares at the blood that suddenly blooms from a gaping hole in her thigh, and buries his face in her stomach.
Hey, she whispers. Hey. Shh. We're ok. You do what you need to do. I know it'll be the right thing.
They let Wilson visit him a week later.
"This is nice," he says, taking in the pale green walls of House's private room. He hates that Wilson has seen the insides of enough psych facilities to know, the way every smile Wilson throws his way is tinged with grief and regret, the way he can't bring himself to take what he wants, and, most of all, the way her eyes lit up when he walked into the room.
"I'm moving to a double soon," he shrugs. He'd make a joke about three being a crowd, but…
"What do they have you on?" Wilson asks.
As if he doesn't know, she says, and the way she's inching closer and closer to the foot of the bed, where Wilson is sitting, makes him nervous and jealous and confused because it's suddenly unclear just whom he's jealous of and…
"Tramadol. Nortryptilyne. Cymbalta."
"And…how is it working for you?"
He shrugs, kicking his leg out at her ankles just as she moves to straddle his guest.
"I'm…are you still…hallucinating?" Wilson asks, edging away from his outstretched toes.
"Muscle spasm."
She sits in the corner, watching as they stare at each other in silent discomfort until Wilson finally leaves.
Told you.
He officially ends the silent treatment when he sends her into Nolan's office to steal his file. How is that going to work? she asks, but twenty minutes later they're back in their room, tsking at the soft medicine.
Uncommonly late-onset schizophrenia, she bets as he thumbs through the pages.
"Five dollars."
You gave Wilson your wallet, she reminds him.
"I'll be extra nice to you at bath time."
Deal.
He wins the bet. Beasley's notes point to PTSD coupled with psychotic depression.
Which trauma? she asks, genuinely curious.
"Pick one."
That night, he's collecting his winnings with a surprisingly decent hand job. Thanks, Wilson whispers in his ear, and House throws his head back against a firm shoulder and comes with a sob. "No fair," he pants, and he wishes he could angle his head up and see him there, but he knows he can't, and then the body behind his softens and there is strawberry blond hair in his mouth. I always pay my debts.
The real Wilson comes again, every Wednesday, but they barely speak. I wonder if he had Danny transferred here. Save himself a trip, she muses. He wonders, too, but can't bring himself to ask.
"Have you discussed your diagnosis with Dr. Beasley?" Wilson asks, looking more comfortable in House's space than he had in the beginning. He's brought him a cactus without needles.
"Have you?" House asks.
"No. But she did ask me if I'd come to one of your group sessions. Would that be…ok with you?"
"I don't really talk in those things anymore."
"That's fine."
"You'd be bored. I'm bored and I have a backing band."
"You…you are still hallucinating then?"
"PTSD and depression. Maybe psychotic depression. She makes it up as we go along."
"Which trauma?" Wilson asks. She loves it. Despite having lived through those traumas, he does too.
"Pick one." It's the first time they both smile at the same thing.
And then she leaves him, and once he realizes it's for good he refuses to leave his room for sixteen days. On the seventeenth day, Beasley practically shoves Wilson at him and closes the door behind her.
"You stood me up. Twice. That's a dump-worthy offense," Wilson jokes.
"You left me first, you know," House barks, surprising them both, but he's angry that Wilson is being so…Wilson, and angry that this is all he has left.
"I…don't know why," Wilson lies.
"Come on. I think we both know why."
He gets back on schedule. Goes to private sessions with Nolan, with Beasley. Goes to group for addiction, group for depression and suicidal tendencies, group for PTSD. Goes to arts and crafts and PT. Once he's spotted playing the piano again, Beasley suggests they try out hypnosis.
"It's worked for you before," she argues.
"You have a very loose definition of the word 'work'," he counters.
"I want you to think about it. There are some scripts that I'd like to show you. Normally, I wouldn't go over them with a patient before the session, but I figured you'd appreciate the…professional courtesy. And, if you consent, I'd like to have Dr. Wilson there."
"Why? Re-enactment part of the therapy?"
"I think…you may have some things to say to him that perhaps won't come out in any other setting."
"And you don't think there may be a valid reason for that?" he asks.
"I'm sure there is. But I also think that you've hidden so much of yourself for so long that you had to create someone who actually knows you, just for the company. And she's gone now, Greg. Wilson isn't. Why don't you give him a chance?"
"I'm always giving him chances."
"And he failed you?" Beasley asks, interest perking up. The session ends early.
The first thing he sees is the bus.
"Just breathe, Greg. Take a deep breath, and get off the bus," Beasley intones.
"I can't," he gasps, and Wilson is there, sitting so far away and saying absolutely nothing.
"It's safe," Beasley assures him.
"That's what she said the last time. I should never have gotten off the bus," he moans, and his leg is killing him and his head is killing him and his heart is killing him and…
"I want you to imagine Wilson. Wilson is sitting there next to you, on the bus. Do you see him?"
"Yes."
"I want you to imagine that something is trying to take him away from you. You can easily prevent this from happening. All you have to do is hide him somewhere. Outside the bus is your life. Your memories. Every event that you've experienced, every place you've been. Fifty years' worth of places to visit, to show him. Take his hand, Greg, and get off the bus."
He takes Wilson's hand and together they walk off the bus. And suddenly, he is outside of himself, watching as a younger version of the man he used to be plays "She's Always a Woman" for a younger Wilson, laughs at him, says he has a girlish figure. A fat-girlish figure. And Wilson just drags him away from the piano, puts the Joel cd in the system, and somehow, against all odds, gets a very drunk Gregory House to dance.
"This isn't right," House murmurs, and notices that there is no second Wilson. Just the one, dancing with the better version of himself. He looks down, as if to confirm that his hand is empty. And though he knows that the men before him are happy in that moment, and though he wishes he could give that playfulness and trust back to his Wilson, no matter what it'd mean for him in the end, he grabs his friend's hand and makes a run for it.
"It's ok," Beasley assures him. "Here, you can run. You can do anything you want."
They move on to the head shop, the park, Atlantic City, and the clinic before Wilson points out the obvious.
"You need to take me somewhere I don't belong. From before you met me."
"You just want to see my deepest darkest secrets," House answers, but already he's thinking, trying to remember all the things he never told him.
"You always did hide too much. Should be easy to find a me-free zone." Like a mind reader, House thinks, and then he focuses on the word "childhood" and then…
"You better be stripped and at attention when I get up there, son!"
"God. I never wanted you to see this," Houses cringes, his father's voice still echoing against the tiles on the bathroom wall.
"Obviously you need me to, or I wouldn't be here," Wilson answers, but despite his obvious curiosity he's looking a bit uncomfortable as House starts to unbutton the shirt of his school uniform.
"Shut up. You told me to take you here. A good place to hide. Unless you're me," he mumbles, hating the part of himself that won't stop obeying his father's orders. Hating that Wilson is seeing him like this when he'd spent years trying to bury it.
"Shouldn't be. You should have told me," Wilson gently chides, and it's almost a comfort. House hears Beasley whispering something, far away, but he's trying to focus on his buttons, which are proving impossible to handle with such shaky hands.
"I…don't like this," he admits. "I'm older than him now but I feel like I did back then."
"Which was?"
"He's going to crush me like a bug."
"I'm here."
"No, you aren't. You weren't. Neither of us is here. Oh God, he's coming. Wilson, he's coming. Don't let him put me in the tub," he pants, close to hyperventilating, and he swears it was never this bad, the dread, that it must be because there are witnesses to his weakness this time. He can take it. That's what he always told himself, right? It's going to hurt for an hour or two. That's nothing. That's a bad trip to the dentist, or a line drive to the stomach. You can take it. You'll be fine, and in a few years, you'll show him. What the hell is he? Just a stupid jarhead. What's he know about anything anyway?
"Stop taking your clothes off," Wilson interrupts, grabbing at his shoulders, his hands, his face. "House. You don't need to do this."
"You don't know, you don't know. Why the hell didn't you stop me?"
"What? When?"
"Never mind. Doesn't matter. Shhh. God, he's taking off his belt," he adds, thinking he can hear the leather sliding against cotton, the buckle that would leave a few scars on the small of his back. "Please leave. Please leave. You're not supposed to see this, no one is allowed to know."
"Come on. Think of somewhere else. Somewhere safe."
"Safe? They'd find us. That's the first place they'd look for you," he answers, not sure who "they" are in this charade but certain all the same that if he looks away, lets his mind wander, lets his will falter, then Wilson will be gone.
"Stacy! Let's go find Stacy," Wilson suggests. And then…
"This is so much worse," he announces, covering himself with their old bed sheets, trying to ignore the scent of aborted sex and humiliation in the air.
"Greg…it's ok," she says (said, because this was real, this was him, them, and he's failing her all over again).
"It's not fucking ok!"
"House…I don't need to be seeing this, either," Wilson says, and he can't tell if Wilson's laughing or cringing with his face buried in his hands like that.
"Like I'm having fun. Shit."
"Greg?"
"House?"
"My leg hurts. God damn it. I can't do this."
"Lisa said…we'll try again. Wait for the pills to kick in."
"Any more pills you might as well castrate me. Not like you don't already have me by the balls. God, Wilson. This is humiliating. And stop staring at my girlfriend's tits."
"She's not your girlfriend anymore."
"Right. Like I really forgot. Wilson?" But he's fading and House doesn't care if he's mangled and naked, he's out of the bed and dragging him out of the apartment and into the winter street.
"Why don't you try hiding somewhere deeper?" Beasley suggests when he and Wilson finally stop running, and House's head has provided him with some clothes.
"What's worse than humiliation?" he asks.
"Shame? If you are capable of that," Wilson answers, and it's the second time they both smile at the same thing, until…
"I just wanted to say Merry Christmas," House finds himself saying, before hanging up the phone and thinking, goodbye.
"You didn't tell me you called your parents," Wilson observes, watching House down the last of the Oxy and a tumbler of the hard stuff.
"You never really asked," he answers, feeling the burn in his chest.
"Are you…I knew it couldn't have been an accident. Not really. But I never…"
"Shut up."
"Why did you do it?"
"Same reason I let Chase drill a hole in my head."
"House." But he's busy throwing up, falling to the floor. And finally…
"Shut up, Wilson. You're supposed to walk out now."
"What did you do, after I left?"
"Crawled into the bathroom, tried to make myself throw up the rest of the pills. When I could stand again, I went to find Tritter, take the deal. But it was too late. I'd fucked that up, too."
"I'm sorry I left."
"Yeah? Well, you shouldn't have shown up in the first place."
"Greg?" Beasley interrupts, and he and Wilson are back on the bus, as if it's become the new base station for his entire life. "When Wilson came to see you last week, do you remember telling him that he left you first?"
"Yes," he answers, because since Amber abandoned him he's remembered everything. Including how to say and think her name without calling her to him.
"I'd like you to take us back to that day, when Wilson left you."
And he thinks they're going to be back in Wilson's office, watching him walk away, but instead…
The doors to the ICU slide close, as House's eyes slide close, and Cuddy wakes up and scoots close, the sound of the chair creeping across the floor echoing off tiles and glass and a cracked skull. "How are you feeling?" she asks him, and he tracks her gaze as it moves across monitors and bed sheets and clenched fists before it meets his and a sharp pain detonates behind his eyes.
"Wilson just left," he gasps, and Christ, am I crying?
"Did he –,"
"No, he just left. Hates me."
"Oh. House," she breathes, grabbing his hand and he damns himself for ever having found comfort in that. "He doesn't hate you. He just…can't stand to be around you. Right now. Give him a few days. It's going to be all right."
He remembers those words, coming from Wilson the day Stacy came back into his life, and he snorts, pain in his head receding, shooting down his spine and, yes, latching onto his heart. His tired, scarred, charred heart. "Nothing's going to be all right now."
"It will be," Wilson says, grabbing hold of his hand.
"We're back on the bus," House answers, too tired to argue.
"Greg," Beasley says, and he knows what's coming. They had agreed on this script beforehand. She because she thought it would 'help the healing process' and he because he doubted it would make the slightest bit of difference. But that was before he'd been guided into divulging some of the worst moments of his life to the one person who could hurt him the most.
"Do we have to?" he asks.
"I think it's something that you need to hear. From at least one person in your life," she answers, and Wilson squeezes his hand.
"A disinterested party?"
"A person with no reason to lie."
"There's always a reason to lie," he argues. But then… "go ahead," because he was just so tired and wanted it to be over.
"You're going to find yourself easily able to forgive yourself for things you feel you may have done wrong in the past, whether those wrongs are real or imaginary and whether they are in your conscious mind or buried within the subconscious. You're going to find yourself easily able to let go of any guilt feelings associated with these things. Because you are a normal human being with normal emotions and normal drives, you're sometimes prone to make normal human errors, as we all do. But those errors, those human mistakes, are in the past now... and we cannot and should not attempt to rewrite history, because everything that happens to us is part of what makes us human and the very fact that we are able to feel guilt tells us that we are human, tells us that that we are a caring person. Because if we felt no guilt, then that would mean that we did not care, and it is only the person who does not care that should feel guilt. And yet it is only the person who cares, who genuinely cares, that does feel guilt.
So now it's time for you to be just a little kinder to yourself, to accept that the guilt you have been feeling is the subconscious mind's way of letting you punish yourself for things you feel you may have done wrong. But there is always a limit to the amount of punishment that is needed for any wrongdoing. Every caring person knows that. And when that limit has been reached, there is no just need or cause for that punishment to continue. And a caring person finds it easy to forgive people their mistakes…so you can now forgive yourself, just as you would forgive others for their errors, their mistakes. Because those things you feel you may have done wrong were errors. Just mistakes. So there is no need now for further punishment. Most of the time, nearly all of the time, you don't make these errors. Nearly all the time, you do the right thing. And you have always tried to do what you believed was the right thing to do. And because of this, you're going to find it easy to forgive yourself, right now, right this minute. You're going to find yourself easily able to let go of any guilt feelings associated with these things that you feel you may have done wrong... whether those feelings are in the conscious mind or buried within the depths of the subconscious. It's all right to let go of those feelings of guilt... and to accept that you are a whole, complete, and worthwhile person..." [1]
He wakes up in Dr. Beasley's office, his cheeks wet and Wilson staring at him just like he stares at lab reports that promise remission. With cautious hope.
"How do you feel?" Beasley asks.
"Tired."
They leave him alone for the rest of the day, and he wishes he could believe all of the things Beasley had told him. And that, he supposes, is progress.
[1] This hypnosis script for dealing with guilt was taken from .com/guilt_