Twisted

Yes, I do want to change the world.

 

I always have, and I’m driven by a gut-level need to understand the pathology of psychiatric disorders. I know, go ahead and say it: Doctor, heal thyself. To which I respond that altruism by any other name is still altruism, fueled by many different motivations.

 

As a general rule, it takes me a good ten minutes to recalibrate while swimming toward the distant shore I call home, even longer to once again feel comfortable in my own skin. It’s not that I have difficulty working in a violent and pathological environment. Rather, it’s the challenge of having to put on and take off the armor. In order to survive within Loveland’s walls, I must remain on high alert at all times. Not keeping sharp-minded can be dangerous, at times even deadly.

 

And sometimes, that threat can travel beyond the hospital. A few years back, one of my most violent patients managed to escape from the facility—a patient who didn’t much like me at all. He made it all the way to the sidewalk in front of my house. Fortunately, the police did, too, and they apprehended him before any harm was done. On his person, they found a butcher’s knife, which he’d apparently stolen on his way toward my home. That night was a wake-up call. Soon after, I bought a gun. Neither Jenna nor I particularly love the idea of having a weapon in the house, especially with Devon around, but when it comes to my family’s safety, there is no room left for discussion.

 

So, you can see why once I physically get out of Loveland, I have to mentally get out. Therein lies the struggle, because often there are thoughts that refuse to leave me. Right now, Donny Ray is still doing one hell of a job at spinning my cognitive gears.

 

Ten kids.

 

I hadn’t allowed my mind to absorb that while meeting with him, purely for the sake of professional detachment, but as I gain physical and emotional distance from Loveland, man, are the feelings coming on strong. I witness so many horrible things at work, but there will always be one that I can never get past and never will: how anyone could intentionally harm a child. I’ve worked with a mother who drowned her two-month-old twins in a bathtub full of bleach, a father who threw his six-year-old son to his death from atop an amusement park Ferris wheel. In each of those situations, I managed to stay clinical, be objective, even though a part of me wanted to rip out their lungs.

 

That’s not the psychologist in me speaking—it’s the father.

 

Hearing that Donny Ray’s last victim was Devon’s age is something I can’t get out of my head. Reading his case files is going to be a challenge.

 

Your ten minutes are up, Chris. Home approaching, six miles ahead. Release pressure, prepare for a soft landing.

 

I take my inner voice’s advice and force my mind into some semblance of calm, thankful that the drive affords me this opportunity.

 

Even more thankful that there’s a place of refuge waiting at the end of this road.

 

 

 

 

 

4

 

 

I arrive back to my settled little home world.

 

Well, sort of settled.

 

Somewhere upstairs, it sounds like Devon is running in fast circles, or doing a rain dance, or God only knows what. The ceiling is thumping. Dishes rattle inside the cabinets. And my wife is clearly forcing tolerance, intent on not allowing the commotion to interrupt her phone conversation.

 

The banging stops—for about five seconds—then resumes.

 

I grin and take Jenna in, relishing the normalcy, the seemingly mundane, because it’s so much more than that. Because beneath the layers, life is all about contrasts and perspectives. After spending time in one of the darkest corners this world has to offer, a walk through our door never fails to restore the balance and order I so desperately need. I credit my wife for drawing those distinctive lines. She knows where I come from, what I lived through as a child. She knows all my demons and offers the security I need to beat them down.

 

“Yes, I understand,” she says, splitting her attention between the caller, Devon’s antics, and dinner preparations. Amidst all that, she still manages to brighten at the sight of me.

 

“Why don’t we wait on that one until I look it over tonight?” A few moments later, Jenna finishes the conversation and hangs up the phone.

 

I walk toward her, kiss the back of her neck. She turns to me, flashing that adorable smile, and it happens once more. I’m overwhelmed. I fall madly and hopelessly in love with my wife all over again. Pulling Jenna toward me, I breathe her in, but even skin to skin doesn’t seem close enough. Nothing seems close enough.

 

We stay this way for several seconds, and I can feel her draw the tension out of me, my muscles loosening, my mind finding its center. She moves back a few inches, doesn’t say anything, but I can tell this has been a challenging day for us both.

 

“Business stuff?” I offer, allowing my hand to slide down toward her waist.

 

“Business stuff, plus a few hundred other things.” She squeezes my hand and tries to smile, then walks toward the stove. Pulling open the oven door, she checks on dinner. “But yes, business at this particular moment.”

 

“The phone call,” I confirm.

 

She nods. “One of the administrators over at Eisenhower. This consulting business is turning out to be so much more work than even I’d expected.” She closes the door, lets out a weary sigh. “It’s times like this that make me wish I could just go back to being a principal again.”

 

“You’re not regretting the decision, are you?”

 

“Not always. Just sometimes.” Jenna pauses for a moment, as if giving the question further consideration. “Then I think about the reason I got out in the first place, how much being here for Devon means to us both, and everything seems okay again. The problem is . . .”

 

“Starting a business isn’t easy,” I say.

 

“Not at all.”

 

“Sweetheart, you’re the strongest person I’ve ever known. You can handle this.”

 

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