Disclaimer: Don't own
A/N: This one is very similar to my oneshot, Vulnerable, but with a few twists and turns, and I think it's different enough to be considered a different story. I will update as inspiration strikes, and before you ask, this one will have no pairings. I can write gen stories, see? (nods) That said, there WILL be many close friendships.
This story will probably act as a trigger to some. I'm going to warn what the triggers are, but they may also be spoilers. If you want to know, read them, if you don't, skip them and be surprised.
Possible triggers include; mental illness (psychotic depression and anxiety disorders) and alcohol abuse in this chapter, and, in future chapters, attempted suicide and cutting. There may be more that I'm not thinking of as the story continues; if that is the case, I'll add it to the A/N at the top of the chapter it's introduced in. If any of the above are triggers for you, please proceed with caution.
Well, I think that just about takes care of everything. Please review!
This can't be happening.
That was all he could think as he lowered himself to the chair, shaking violently enough to make the chair move. He was almost hyperventilating. He was a psychiatrist; this wasn't possible. Psychiatrists didn't experience hallucinations or delusions. They didn't hear voices that weren't there. They didn't have sudden paranoia that someone could hear their thoughts, or that someone was trying to send them messages over the television. They didn't experience homicidal thoughts. He couldn't be experiencing psychotic depression. His patients might- he didn't.
He closed his eyes, trying to calm himself down. Obviously he had just become so afraid of become like them, he had started displaying symptoms. It was psychosomatic, like women with false pregnancies or people who were so afraid they had a terrible illness that they started displaying symptoms. It was like when he was still in med school, and he and his classmates went to the school doctor almost every week because they were convinced they whatever cancer or genetic disorder or rare parasitic infection they'd learned about in the latest lecture.
George knew he was almost certainly depressed. Very few people in his position weren't. No family, few friends, and no partner to deflect the loneliness like an NYPD detective would have. He had an emotionally strenuous job, and added to the fact that as an FBI agent, he wasn't allowed to talk about most of his cases, which meant he couldn't vent his feelings. He had no problem admitting that he would benefit from antidepressants.
But psychosis? No. Never. He almost whimpered as he thought about how such a diagnosis would affect his career. He'd have to be admitted to a psychiatric hospital, and if he wasn't admitted voluntarily, he wouldn't be able to own a gun again- which meant he wouldn't be able to be an FBI agent anymore. At best, he'd be able to go into private practice, but even then, if it got out, he would lose his reputation, killing his career.
It had started with the depression. Questioning why he was still doing this, why he was bothering to understand criminals. He didn't like understanding them. Their minds were the filthiest place on the planet, and he wasn't sure how much longer he could trudge through them.
He'd sank deeper and deeper into the depression as the days wore by. Soon, he knew the thoughts had persisted for long enough that he knew he'd meet the clinical criteria for depression.
And then, it happened.
He had been sitting at home when he'd heard a voice telling him, "They're trying to kill you!"
Startled, he'd turned around and saw that... his apartment was deserted. He'd called out, asking for the person to show himself, but there was no person. No one at all.
He'd shaken off the fear and started to make himself some dinner- but he couldn't use his oven. There was a ticking noise coming from it, something that sounded suspiciously like a bomb. But looking inside, he couldn't see any wires or other components.
Deciding that he needed some fresh air, he'd left his apartment and walked to the neighborhood bar.
But it didn't end there. Glancing at the people sitting there, he suddenly found himself thinking that they all wanted to hurt him. And that same voice from earlier said, "Hurt them before they hurt you."
Taking a deep breath, he caught the bartender's attention and ordered a scotch. He needed to calm down.
He glanced up at the television and saw an ad for Zoloft. "How could they possibly know that I prescribed that today?" He'd wondered, panicked.
He almost moaned when he realized what he was thinking. He was not developing paranoid delusions. He was just tense. That was all.
The bartender slid a glass in front of him and said, "Hey, here's yer scotch."
George nodded and took a large gulp. But then the voice came back and warned, "He drugged it."
He would have ignored it, but he had been worrying the same thing before the voice had spoken up. The voice wasn't real- but on the other hand-
The bartender was still standing there, and George felt fury coursing through his veins. He wanted to punch him. Hard.
"That'll show everyone to stop trying to hurt you," The voice had said approvingly. George shook his head silently and turned his head back to the TV. But it was still sending him messages.
"Hey man, you look upset," The bartender had said. "Is the TV bugging you? I can turn the volume down or something."
"They all hear your thoughts-" George tried to ignore the voice, but he couldn't. It wasn't real, but it was.
Reaching inside his pants pocket, he'd quickly pulled out his credit card and paid for the half-finished scotch. Then he'd practically bolted back to his apartment.
Once inside, he locked the door and sank to his knees, closing his eyes and bursting into silent tears. "I did not just have a psychotic break. I am not psychotic and I never will be," He whispered frantically to himself.
"That's what they'll try to tell you, though. And if they convince you, they'll kill you," The voice chimed in.
"No one wants to kill me. I'm just feeling a little anxious because of the case today," He'd said silently.
"You saw exactly what I did! There was a bomb in the oven, but it disappeared because you saw it too soon. The TV was sending you messages. The bartender read your thoughts!"
"N-no," He whispered. "This isn't real. I'm just-"
"You start to believe that," The voice cut in, "And they'll kill you."
Things had just gotten worse from there. It plagued him everywhere- at work, at home. It got to the point where the voice tried to tell him that Olivia was trying to hurt him. He began to develop agoraphobia and anxiety, and he barely managed to conceal his distress- but he didn't know how much longer he could do this.
George was still trembling violently. Today, the voice had been pleading with him to kill the suspect in interrogation. And then it had urged him to commit suicide, before they got him. "Kill yourself to spite them!"
He had his FBI-issue glock sitting in front of him on the kitchen table. If he killed himself, no one would need to know that he was psychotic. He could just be another overwhelmed FBI agent who had become convinced that the world was never going to change and needed a way out.
Finally, unsure if he would be able to fight the desire again, he set the gun down. "How is this happening?" George cried, tears streaming down his face.
"It's their fault! They're trying to manipulate you so they can kill you!"
"Shut up," George whispered, pleadingly.
"I'm warning you-"
"SHUT UP!" George roared, picking his gun up and hurling it at the wall. He wished this voice was a real person so he could fucking stab him.
He stood and flung his refrigerator open, grabbing a large bottle of wine and guzzling enough to knock him out. He waited for what felt like years, trying to force the voice to stop talking.
"Idiot! They could have poisoned that!"
"Shut up! No one's after me!"
He didn't know how long it was before the wave of nausea overtook him, but it was the best thing he'd ever felt. He threw up into the sink, and by the time he was done, he could no longer hear the voice. He enjoyed the deafening silence for several minutes before he passed out, slumping to the floor.