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Rated: ASR · Short Story · Other · #1894681
Phoenix writes his doctor a letter, not knowing what else to do...
Phoenix was in agony.  The memories were torturing him again.  Memories of the War.  Memories of...  He could not talk about it.  His doctor was the only one he trusted enough to tell these things to.  He was the only one that understood.  The only one who would not judge Phoenix for what he had been through - for what he had had to do.  Phoenix tried everything.  He tried doing outlines for his social psychology articles.  He tried studying his neuropharmacology.  He tried answering his lab questions for neuropharm.  He tried reading the Scriptures.  He tried practicing his Spanish.  He tried working on his thesis.  He tried drawing.  None of it got the War off of his mind.  He went over to a friend's for a while twice earlier in the day.  The only thing Phoenix had not tried was playing his guitar, but with every moment, more memories rushed back, flooding his mind with trauma, terror, and madness.  He decided it was time to write his doctor a letter.

Phoenix wrote the letter hoping that his doctor would read it right away the next day instead of waiting until the end of the week as he had the week before.  That disturbed Phoenix - that his doctor had not read his letter when he had needed his help.  This letter was more to get things out in the open and off his chest, though.  This letter did not absolutely have to be read the moment his doctor received it.  This was for relief, not a plea for help.  This letter contained many feelings, an account of a situation that Phoenix had not described to his doctor, and Phoenix's reaction to his current situation.  It was something that Phoenix was not sure he could tell his doctor in person.  He was that ashamed and embarrassed about the situation.  Phoenix knew that his doctor would not reject Phoenix for telling him, but Phoenix was not comfortable enough with the memories of the situation, much less what actually happened, to speak it into existence in session.  He could answer questions about it if his doctor asked, but he could not outright tell him about it without covering his head and rocking back and forth in his seat.  It was that traumatic.

Phoenix suffered a panic attack about halfway through writing about the situation in the letter.  His chest tightened, his lungs closed up, his blood pressure went through the roof, as did his heart rate, and he started sweating profusely.  Phoenix had not had a panic attack in a long time.  He struggled to breathe, and had to talk himself down before continuing with the letter.  He included in the letter that he had had the panic attack while writing it.  Phoenix felt insane.  Where was his mind going?  Where was he going?  To Hell?  For the things he had done, Phoenix imagined so.  The War.  Hell.  How different could they be?
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