Page 49 of Dark Ugly Places

“I can send you over to urgent care.”

My temple throbs as I stare at her. Urgent care took hours last time. The thought of waiting brings forth a new stab of pain behind my left eye. “I can’t wait.”

Constance leans forward and folds her hands across the table. “You see, that’s what concerns me, Nicola. Your urgency for the pills. It suggests a dependency. And your PTSD and panic attacks have been getting worse. These are warning signs. Do you understand that?”

Somewhere deep inside me is a kernel of recognition that I should be remembering something important. But I can’t.

“The pills help me function,” I say to her. “I need them.”

She stares at me, contemplating a response. “I will ask my colleague to write you a temporary prescription as long as you will do one thing.”

“What’s that?”

She leans back, apparently pleased with herself. I can feel the heat of the sun rising against the glass. In the park across the street, a homeless woman rummages in a trash can near the bus stop.

“I would like you to talk about your father.”

My arms tense. A trickle of sweat forms under my breasts and down my back despite the AC. “What do you want to know?”

“What emotions do you associate with your father?”

I don’t have to think about it. The answer lives with me. “I hate him. I’ve always hated him.”

She pulls another piece of paper from a folder and continues scribbling.

“And why do you hate him?”

“He was abusive. A drunk, too, if you want to know.”

“Yes, you’ve said that before.” Dr. Constance stops and looks at me. “But there was something else, wasn’t there? Your father suffered from mental illness. Panic attacks. PTSD. And the thing your family called ‘his sickness.’ Do you remember?”

I remember. Of course I remember. How could I forget the thing that haunted my childhood?

“Is that why you’re angry?”

“I appreciate the deep dive and all, Dr. Constance, but this isn’t about him. Something is happening to me, and I need help.”

Constance’s face scrunches. “I am trying to help you, Nicola. But I can’t if you don’t want to face the truth.”

“What truth?”

She notes something down. “You are self-reporting to be anxious and depressed and showing signs of paranoia.”

“Paranoia?”

“Yes. And you are experiencing an increase in panic attacks and worsening PTSD symptoms. You are not taking care of yourself. These are the warning signs of psychosis. Do you understand why that might be a concern, given your family history? Given your father’s history?”

“My father wasn’t psychotic. He was just a bad father.”

“A bad father with his own demons, as you once told me.” She pauses, staring at me. “What did you mean by demons, Nicola?”

Careful, Martha warns.

“Look, I’m trying to take care of myself,” I tell her. “That’s why I came in here. I am trying, but it’s not all up to me.”

“What does that mean?”

I slam my hand down, starting to feel heat rising in my belly. “I told you! I’m totally out of meds. I have no idea where they are, but they’re gone. All of them. I need a prescription, and I need it now. I need to get my thoughts in order.”