In therapy, Hannah had learned about breaking the cycle of avoidance, to confront her stressors and anxiety head on. She spent weeks writing about the trauma she suffered in Sonora, every session with her therapist talking through more and more detail; later, she practiced applying those methods to her current stressors: touch triggers, the pain of rehab, every pitying glace sent her way by nurses or agents who visited her. The key, her therapist said, was active assessment. Taking too long to admit something was bothering her only gave the negative thoughts more time to eat away at her shaky personal peace.
Admit, identify, explore. It was a mantra Hannah had spent months cultivating. Months of journaling, group sessions, mindfulness. She'd done everything right. Now, sitting on the floor of her apartment in a fuzzy robe, Hannah stared at her latest journal, a green spiral bound notebook, wondering how the fuck she'd fallen so far off the wagon.
That's not right, she thought. She knew how it had happened, of course. Working at the DIA had introduced new and acute stresses to her life, but she'd planned for it. Director Campbell spent days going over declassified missions with her, giving examples and possibilities of what Hannah would be called on to deal with as a DIA Mission Coordinator; two and a half weeks ago when she first walked into mission command, she knew the job inside and out. The protocols, the statistics, the odds that every single op she coordinated would require her to hold someone else's life in her hands as she directed them in life or death situations-
Hannah shoved the notebook across the hardwood floor, unable to keep looking at it knowing the last entry was dated exactly three weeks prior.
She still felt raw. Helpless. Last night, she had sat at her desk after everyone else had gone home, muscles aching from tensing up every time an armed tango showed up on one of the team's body cams. After everything she'd been through, after all the effort and will to heal, how could she be so weak? Still? Noah, the last one to leave before her, had muttered something kind yet invasive on his way out; all she could do was ignore him. She could feel bad about it later, right now her heart was racing like she'd been the one in a firefight instead of Dalton's team.
Intellectually, Hannah knew the symptoms of PTSD didn't often obey the victim's twelve step plan for recovery. All the self-help books went out of their way to make her believe there was no fault to be found in what made someone react; that's just how trauma worked. She'd suffered, and there would be things that brought that suffering back to the forefront of her mind.
The green notebook caught her eye from where it had slid beneath the kitchen table, and she thought of all the empty pages that should be filled. Admit, identify, explore.
Fuck.
Hannah stood, shedding the robe to pull on a tee shirt and pajama pants. Other than her bed and the thrifted table and chairs, the small apartment was bare. Cardboard boxes lined the walls, draped in cloudy garment bags and a random file folder or two carried home from work; if anyone had asked, Hannah could say she was just in the middle of moving out. No one would have to know it had looked like this since she moved in five months ago. Of course, that could be explained away too-Oh, I've just been so busy getting settled in at the DIA-if she really wanted.
The fact that no one had visited long enough to need it explained was a whole other can of worms in itself.
Early afternoon sun shone almost unimpeded through delicate muslin curtains, the only decor she'd bothered to put up. Hannah sighed; instead of warming up the leftover palak paneer in the microwave, she ate it cold, straight from the container as she paced around the small studio. Images drifted through her mind… blood soaked fatigues, dark hallways covered in sand and dust, knives gleaming in the hot sun… memories from her past blended together with scenes from her first three ops with the DIA, blown up on the massive wall screens in Operations Command.
Warm brown eyes and a voice like torn velvet.
She'd let Amir see what she had become. What she allowed herself to become. There is never any apology needed for working through the pain in your past. He didn't see how much she blamed herself.
"That's the thing, Al-Raisani," Hannah said out loud, gesturing to the absent man with her fork. "I stopped working through it."
The green notebook mocked her with it's bright color. Hannah tossed the empty take-out container in the trash. Intellectually, she knew he was right. Knew that freezing up for two weeks wasn't the end of her recovery. She chewed on her lip and tried to bury the sudden urge to tear at her skin, angry at herself for letting this happen again, especially after talking with Amir had left her able to sleep longer than five hours for the first time in two weeks.
I'm panicking. I feel panicked. I am angry. And afraid.
Hannah breathed in for four seconds. Hold for five. Exhale eight. Repeat. Amir really did make her feel better. He was empathetic in a less intrusive way than most people. His soft words came from a part of himself that Hannah knew had experienced the same type of darkness she had. True, she'd cheated a little by reading his file (devouring it, really) but it still surprised her just how open he was with it.
I panicked because I couldn't help. I am angry because the panic took control. I am afraid it will happen again.
Hannah moved to the window near her bed, touching the curtains, letting the material slide over her bare arm. The lightness helped. Things like soft fabric, fuzzy robes-she did better with those. Proximity to people was more gradual, but she'd been doing better with that too. Not flinching when someone touched her shoulder, or ducked in closer to discuss sensitive information. Responding with a smile and an almost normal gesture of touch back.
She wondered what it would be like to touch Amir.
"Go home. Sleep. I will too, okay? We should talk, but not like this. I think right now we both need rest more than talk." He leaned forward haltingly, as if to move through the screen between them. Hannah didn't flinch. She surprised herself by leaning forward as well, the sudden and fleeting image of diving into his arms not setting of even one alarm bell in her mind. Strange, she thought.
Hannah piddled around her apartment, antsy and itching to return to work. The required 24 hours off duty after an op that lasted longer than 12 hours positively grated on her. Alternating between ignoring the green notebook and glaring at it took up most of her time. This was the first time she'd been forced to observe the 24 hour rule; the first two ops she'd been a part of were swift, 8 hours at most.
She paced.
The sleep had been amazing, but now that she was awake, the pale walls she'd never bothered to decorate seemed almost threatening with how stark they were. Silence chafed at her nerves. Memories of the hospital floated up to the surface; Hannah felt her body clenching up. When pacing faster didn't help, she picked up the notebook and a pen, flipped to an empty page and-Nothing. Fuck.
Hannah ran a hand up and down the scar on her neck. "Patton says sleep tight."
A smile, slow and small, slid across her mouth. She pushed away the notebook once more, replacing it on the table with her personal laptop. A Word document will have to work for the moment, she decided. She'd transfer it to the secure server at work later.
Amir,
Still trying to get your request for chocolate cake to go through. No one seems to take it seriously, though I remain optimistic.
I slept 7 hours last night. Usually when I sleep that long I have nightmares of my attack, or of something going wrong with your team-one of you dying because of a direction I gave you. This time I didn't dream at all, though.
I get scared of leaving the office. I get scared of a lot of things now, but not the things I should be scared of, like the things I see you all do. It's the quiet, the emptiness. It's in my apartment and it's inside me. What you said about apologizing, you were right. I officially take back my apology. I was stuck in a "cycle of avoidance", as the therapists would call it. Talking to you helped me break it.
Thank you, Amir.
Sending all my love to Patton,
Hannah