A/N: This chapter does NOT pick up right where the previous left off, but it's pretty close. I've written a majority of these chapters from Liv's perspective, so in this chapter, we get a closer look into Amanda's childhood, and an in-depth view at how she is coping with her father's suicide. Trigger warning for mentions of suicide. You are not alone: National Suicide Prevention Lifeline (24/7): 1-800-273-8255.
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It's Tuesday morning, and Amanda Rollins presently finds herself astounded at the fact that she is voluntarily attending therapy for the first time in her life. She had been mandated to therapy a couple of times before throughout her short time at Manhattan's Special Victims Unit, but she was never able to open her mind up enough to the possibility of receiving help from anything other than a casino or a bottle. This time, however—after another traumatic event has plunged its way into her life without warning—something feels different.
She suspects that what is different stems from her growing relationship with her beautiful superior, Lieutenant Olivia Benson: a woman she has idolized and pined after for so long, and is only beginning to scratch the surface on as friends. After Olivia had nearly melted the stoic blonde's heart into a puddle with her response to her father's suicide, Amanda had felt comfortable enough to mention that she had played around with the idea of seeing Dr. Lindstrom for a few sessions. Though she isn't devastated, Amanda feels absolutely dedicated to bettering herself lately, and she figures her father's suicide is a good enough reason to seek out some therapy. The smile that so blatantly plastered itself across the brunette's face was enough to make Amanda's skin prickle with goose bumps, and fill her insides with a warm, blissful heat. Due to the brunette's uncharacteristic, giddy response, Amanda consented to seeing someone. Olivia was more than willing to send in another referral to her trusted therapist, and Dr. Lindstrom happily obliged to give Amanda another chance at healing.
Shortly after her confession to Olivia, Amanda was able to put on a brave face for the rest of the day and stick to her earlier admission of not caring about her father's suicide. As soon as she left the building, however, and started walking to her car in solitude, she fell into a pit of despair. Suddenly, the same streetlamps and the same cracks in the same sidewalks she had grown so accustomed to over the past seven years seemed foreign to her; it was as if she was a visitor in her own mind. She felt her body heave with loss, stumbling in a grief-filled daze as she tried to locate her vehicle. At that moment, a space had been cut into her heart; a piece of her soul evaporated in a way she had never experienced before.
She had spent the remainder of her evening sorting through old photos of her father that she has shamefully kept tucked underneath her bed for many years now; sobbing as she listened to his favorite records on repeat, and feeling rather safe wrapped inside his torn, extra-large, red, plaid shirt. It didn't take long for the guilt of not attending his funeral to set in once she was acquainted with the tangible images of his face; although he was awful to her, he was still her daddy. And, before she was old enough for him to start hating her, and for her to notice how screwed up her family truly was, she remembers spending most of her days outside in a hazy bliss. She remembers just how perfect her peaceful, ranch-styled home in Georgia truly was; sure, it was tiny, but just roomy enough to fit her mother, father, Kim, and herself in a cozy paradise. She remembers the way a soft, gentle breeze would sort through the wisps of her short, blonde tresses on a warm summer day, until she inevitably resorted to hiding her head underneath a ratty baseball cap. She remembers the sound of her mother's voice, yelling at her for getting mud on a recently pressed pair of pants, after digging around in the dirt to collect worms. She remembers the scent of peach trees and blueberry pie lingering in the air. That damn pie, she remembers—its intoxicating smell always taunting her—always sitting so picturesquely atop the kitchen windowsill—just like a storybook. She remembers just how free she felt, running through the tall blades of grass in her big, flat backyard—without the weight of the world on her shoulders—screaming at the top of her lungs into the open air, and giggling as she chased her wobbly, baby sister around, who could barely walk at that point.
Somehow, his shirt still smelled of cigars and his favorite brand of whisky.
The strange, psychological feeling that she had somehow managed to take up residence outside of her own body had not dissipated until the late hours of the evening; it took everything she had in her to not pop open a bottle of her own favorite brand of whisky to drown her ceaseless sorrows. She decided to indulge in staring at the bottle for a while, imagining in detail just how wonderful it would feel to take a swig and feel it travel down her throat; frequently licking her lips in response to her fantasy as the mossy green bottle, with its perfectly formed black and red lettering taunted her with temptation. Luckily, the regretful weekend she had just experienced with Olivia, was enough to keep her from repeating the same behavior—at least for the night.
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Amanda slumps down deeper into the expensive couch cushions she is currently splayed out across, feeling her back mold to the fabric as her legs flow outward in defiance and childlike insubordination. "Oh, come on," she pompously bellows with the roll of her eyes when they meet the cheesy quote nailed in a wooden picture frame placed diagonally across from her. Like that's gonna help, she internally remarks; her stomach rolling in knots and her temples hammering with pain as she awkwardly shifts her body to find a comfortable position.
Still—even amongst all of the motivation and support she feels from Olivia—the woman she is in love with—her "addict brain" is convincing her that she should feel ashamed to even be in such close proximity to a therapist. Maybe it's the Southern influence, but she's never felt comfortable asking for help; in fact, she was usually the one tending to everyone else—her mom, Kim, her father—even when she was a little girl. Internally, Amanda is trying to decide if she should make the same choice she did a couple years ago, and make a run for it straight out of Dr. Lindstrom's office. She feels herself being infinitely mocked by the physical characteristics of the office; the light-blue walls coated in inspirational quotes, a varied selection of dark green houseplants, and a pathetically small tray of peppermints sitting on the coffee table anterior to her. She is in such a haze that she nearly jumps out of her skin as Dr. Lindstrom opens up his office door to greet her, right on time.
"Amanda," he positively states with a hearty smile and the extension of his hand for a handshake. "I'm so glad you could make it." It takes everything in Amanda's power not to roll her eyes at his obviously practiced and fake demeanor, and her brain even convinces her well enough to detect a hint of sarcasm in his voice.
"Y-yeah…" she replies uneasily, weakly shaking his hand back in hesitation. He then uses his upper limbs to motion for her to get up and join him in the room across from where she is seated; eventually she does, but not without a pout on her face and her arms crossed in rebellion.
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The classy, Roman-Numeral numbered clock that is perched high above Dr. Lindstrom's head reads 9:13 a.m. as Amanda checks it for what must be the hundredth time. So far, her session today has been a dull "check-in day," as Dr. Lindstrom had originally titled it. She is, however, feeling utterly aghast at how many personal questions he's asking her: where she grew up, about her family, her friends, her schooling, and so on. She feels herself starting to shut down mentally, and she is now confident that coming here was a horrible mistake.
"So," he remarks, abruptly breaking the looming silence. "I'm reading here, on the new client form, that you wrote you struggle with a gambling addiction. Can you tell me a little more about that? Is that something you'd like to work on while you're here?" Amanda is seated restlessly across from him in a brown, leather chair; he is looking high and mighty relaxing comfortably from behind his desk, eyes scanning the paper forms in hand.
"Yuh already know I'm here because of my daddy," she seethes. "How about you mind your own goddamn business? That's what I'd like us to work on."
His face remains unchanged; likely due to the multitude of years he has spent as a professional in the mental health field, and has probably faced much worse. "Okay Amanda," he lightly counters. "Tell me about your daddy." His voice is soothing and calm, and it bothers her that he—a grown man—is using the word "daddy."
Resolute to keep an open mind, she lets out a deep exhale she wasn't aware she was holding, and the smile that shined across Olivia's face when she had mentioned going to therapy in the first place permeates into her brain. Ugh, that smile, she internally recalls. Olivia's smile; it's enough to keep her hanging on, at least for the next half hour. After that, she is free to go, and never return to this nosy man's office. "My daddy was a sick man," she lets out, overcome with self-consciousness and disbelief that she's actually talking to someone about her family. If her father ever knew that she, Amanda Rollins, was speaking ill of his name, he would have had his way with her, she thinks.
"Why was he a sick man, Amanda?" Dr. Lindstrom asks in a non-judgmental tone, still maintaining a calm and soothing voice that annoys the shit out of the blonde detective at the moment.
"He just…he was…okay?" she exhales. "He liked what I like…or…I like what he liked," she confusedly responds, twirling blonde strands of hair between the tips of her fingers as she anxiously moves around the seat of the chair.
"Gambling?" he prods.
"Yeah. Gambling," she reluctantly replies. "Money. Winning. Fighting. Booze. Women. We're not so different, I guess," she verbally realizes, still fidgeting with her hair and biting the top of her lip.
"But he killed himself. And you're alive." His statement is so deliberate, so palpable, that Amanda immediately feels like she's going to be sick. She pushes down the wave of nausea climbing up her thorax with unabated anger, shifting her body position from slacked to defensive.
"Ha, alive," she humorlessly laughs. "Yeah, so what? Everybody wants to kill themselves; it's just the matter of who's brave enough to actually go through with it." His eyes bore into her listless, cobalt orbs, which are now glazed over with a sickening film. "I gotta admit, though," she continues with a light chuckle, "props to him; hanging yourself is a pretty gnarly way to go."
"Amanda, I hope you know that's not true. That's not healthy thinking; typically, people don't walk around thinking about suicide," he replies with detectable concern. "Do you?"
She already knows that this question is a trap; she knows that if she admits to how she really feels about this question, her badge and gun will be taken away before she even has the chance to defend herself. "No…not…really," she states. "I guess…" she grudgingly continues, "I guess it's just nice to know that it's an option, ya know?" "Like," she resumes, "if things ever got really bad, it's nice to know I'd have a way out."
After Amanda is suddenly cognizant with the awareness that her mind has been operating this way for as long as she can remember, she feels herself stop breathing. It feels like the foot of an elephant is pressing on her chest, crushing her tiny sternum with thousands of heavy, truth-filled pounds. She blinks the materializing tears out of her eyes and averts her gaze to study the essential oil diffuser spewing scents of lavender into the room. Like that's supposed to fuckin' help right now, she reflects.
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Amanda is dizzy and winded with nerves as she stumbles out of the elevator onto the first floor of the medical building. She had unwillingly scheduled another appointment with Dr. Lindstrom; desperately grasping onto thoughts of Olivia's smile and just how proud she was of her for even inquiring about therapy, as she did so. As soon as Amanda pads her way into the lobby, she is greeted with the sweet sight of Lieutenant Olivia Benson holding a colorful bouquet of flowers, waiting for her. "How was it?" the brunette gently asks as Amanda makes her way up to the beautiful, older woman and accepts the gift. "I'm so proud of you, 'Manda," she continues without a response; her lips forming a faint smile as she extends her right arm to wrap the blonde detective closer to her body in a comforting, half-hug. Amanda is left breathless at her boss' sweet gesture, so much so, that she can't bring herself to speak. "Sweetheart…how was it?" Olivia inquires again, this time allowing the pet name to fall from her lips without a second thought. The older woman continues to squeeze Amanda closer to herself, brown tresses gracing the blonde's shoulders as the strands fall onto her.
Again, Amanda gravely struggles to keep the tears in her eyes at bay as she feels the older woman's sincere embrace spread across her entire being. She also finds herself very thankful that it's still chilly outside, and that she's wearing long-sleeves, because her arms are presently littered in goose bumps in response to Olivia's touch. "It was…interesting," she finally mutters, so lowly that Olivia has to ask her to repeat herself. Suddenly, the thought dawns on her that it's just past 10 a.m. on a Tuesday, and her boss is snuggled up against her in public, instead of maintaining her usual, tough demeanor at the precinct. "Liv, shouldn't you be at work?" Amanda blankly prods, careful not to seem ungrateful at her boss' unexpected and unnecessary support.
"So I took an early lunch," Olivia shrugs with a tender smile and a hint of mischievousness in her voice. "I'm the boss; I can do what I want."
Amanda rolls her eyes at the older woman's characteristic buoyancy, and gives Olivia's side a tight squeeze. Her heart is suddenly filling with so love and gratitude, that it becomes impossible to hold the tears back. As chocolate eyes gaze into piercing blue, Amanda allows slow, clear tears to roll down her cheeks; feeling safe in the fact that the woman she is crying in front of is the woman she can trust with her life. "I'm so proud of you," Olivia quietly repeats, as she places a soft kiss atop Amanda's blonde crown and prompts them start walking. The two women stride out of the building and into the bitter cold, kept warm by the fact that they are wrapped up in each other's arms. Amanda can't actually believe this is happening; after all these years, and after all of the trauma they have both faced, something has shifted.
"Thanks for coming, Liv," Amanda genuinely expresses as the two of them have unenthusiastically retreated to physically splitting apart in an attempt to hail down a cab in the midst of mid-morning traffic. "Sweetheart…of course…" the older woman perplexingly responds. "You're gonna be okay, you know that?" Olivia continues, her once seemingly endless smile now turning to a frown when she sees Amanda's forehead wrinkle in response to her simple question. "Come here. Hold my hand," Olivia carelessly states, motioning for the young detective to inch closer to her.
"I have a long way to go," Amanda confirms as she links her cold fingers with Olivia's bigger, warmer digits.
"Maybe" Olivia immediately replies, "but you have me. And since you have me, nothing's gonna hurt you, baby."