In Session [Invite]

[Amalea]

Fifteen was when her life had changed. The man she had grown up believing was her father had been killed in a plane crash during one of his many business trips. It had been a devastating blow for the teenager as she’d lost the only person in her life that had seemed to care about her. Her mother certainly didn’t and often took great pains to make the red-head aware of that fact. Had she only lost Giles, perhaps she would have grieved and coped in a healthy manner.

However, her most vivid memory of the time, aside from the funeral, was of her mother standing over her while she was curled up onto the corner of the couch as if she wished it would swallow her whole. The woman had spewed her vitriol at the teen for over an hour. Everything from how the girl had been an unwanted baby that ruined her life to how she was still an inconvenience along with everything in between. The real icing on the cake was the half hour she spent blaming the red-head for being the reason Giles was dead; if she hadn’t been born, he would have never been on the trip, after all. It was a scene that replayed several times that week.

It was the beginning of the teenager’s downward spiral. The return to boarding school provided a welcome respite from the verbal abuse though it did nothing to abate the mental and emotional turmoil that had already begun to plague her far more than normal. She was used to being told she wasn’t wanted; that had been occurring since she was old enough to understand the words. It was blame for Giles’ death that seemed to push her over the edge of the cliff to carreen out of control.

Several suicide attempts dotted the school year and each time her mother wouldn’t allow them to do more than patch her up and send her back to class. To her mind, it wasn’t depression but just her daughter seeking attention and acting out. After the first two, she told the school to stop contacting her about them as she’d made her position and wishes clear; not even counseling was permitted.

It was at the red-head’s next pre-school physical, that August, that a clinical diagnosis of depression was rendered. Given she was only sixteen, her mother refused the advice of the doctor that would have placed the teenager on medication and had her attending therapy. Instead, the woman was adamant that her daughter never speak of it as she insisted it wasn’t something the teen had.

Eventually, the teenager learned of a herbal remedy and began taking that with her mother none the wiser. Doctor and therapist visits along with real medications were out of the question as she remained on her mother’s insurance until the day she moved to Canada. The woman combed through each visit record with a fine-tooth comb to ensure her daughter only sought necessary and approved care. This led the red-head to avoid the doctor as much as possible as she didn’t appreciate her overbearing nature.

Moving to Harper Rock was a welcome change; here she could live her life as she wanted. It was enlightening to live in a place where she could afford to live on her own without having several roommates or jobs. She had even been able to find a job she loved with an amazing boss and coworkers. Ingrained by her mother that no one wanted to hear about it, her depression remained hidden from those around her.

When Reyna, her first and only lover, disappeared without a word, she had begun another downward spiral. This time, though, there were no suicide attempts as she tried to maintain her normal routine despite the oppression and numbness she felt. It was an interesting proposition that led the red-head to become a blood thief that had pulled her out of the extreme depression she had found herself in.

Four years had passed since then and the time had come for her to get the help she’d been denying herself. Whatever had happened the night they met Theodosia scared the red-head. Despite the fact she knew nearly no one in the city believed her tale, it was concerning to her to have felt that way. She had no idea if the depression played into what had occurred but it didn’t matter after seeing the damage done. It simply wasn’t worth the risk of it biting her in the *** again.

It had been something she considered carefully for weeks before asking Doc for a recommendation for a mental facility outside Harper Rock that could handle depression. It wasn’t something she felt could be safely done within the city, currently. She knew he was still angry with her but she’d been grateful that he’d been able to refer her to a place in Ottawa. The bit of research she had done before contacting the institution had put her at ease; they seemed to have great programs in place.

The only fly in the plan was that the facility was currently full for non-emergency cases and she wasn’t willing to be referred elsewhere which her contact had understood. It had taken a couple days, but he had contacted her with a proposition. They were currently testing a pilot program of using video sessions with patients primarily after their release but they had a small test group of pre-admissions sessions to which he wanted to add her. It was a win in her mind; she could start getting help now and potentially reduce her time at the facility later.

Checking her watch, she poked at the computer to wake it up. It was nearly time for her to meet the person she’d be working with for the next couple weeks. Her fingers were crossed as she loaded up the software; she hoped they would work well together, otherwise she was in for a painful trial run.

[Levi DAmico]

This is a NPC

As a science, Psychology attempts to investigate and understand an enormous range of phenomena; from learning and memory, to sensation and perception, motivation and emotion, thinking and language, personality and social behaviour, intelligence, child development, and mental illness – to name but a few.

Psychology is concerned with all aspects of behaviour and with the thoughts, feelings, and motivations underlying that behaviour. It is both a thriving academic discipline and a vital professional practice.

Applied or practising Psychologists use the knowledge gained from this research in a wide range of settings. Applied Psychologists help people with all sorts of problems, working with them to bring about change for the better. They come in many forms, from Clinical to Counselling, Educational, Forensic, and many more. Each type of Psychologist will work in a particular field or use their knowledge for different purposes, but they all work to the same end goal: they want to help you discover your strengths, overcome your weaknesses, and find a way to adapt and thrive in the society and culture in which you are living.

Doctor Frederic Benoit Garloh had been operating in the field for over 30 years and had several PH.Ds to tack onto his already presumptuous title. The well-learned man had completed many years of study, clinic duty, and research in the Universities of British Columbia, Toronto, and McGill in Canada. Yet, he had not stayed still for very long. The Doctor had lived in Paris for just under a decade where he had learned the French approach to psychiatry. There were also stints to Rome, Milan, and Tuscany where he and his Italian wife would indulge in the cultures of their respective professions. And then there were the times he spent in the United Kingdom – predominantly acting as a private therapist to those lucky enough to afford his advice, and of course taking up the mantel as a lecturer for Oxford.

Despite the opportunities vested to him by a lifetime of study and practice, Doctor Garloh had rooted himself in London, England, for the past ten years – of which seven were spent awaiting word, or indeed the return, of his only son, Myk Garloh. Their problematic child would be celebrating his 30th birthday this year, but with no sign of him coming home despite clear evidence that he was alive through the haphazard messages he would leave them, Doctor Garloh had made the decision to return to his homeland of Canada.

Yet, in the effort to reach the last known whereabouts of their son, Doctor Garloh had come upon a scene ripped straight from the script of a science fiction movie. The city of Harper Rock had been cordoned off by the military, citing rumours of an unknown outbreak, possibly zombies. He was turned around and sent on his way, but he couldn’t go back to the UK. Instead, the Doctor travelled north under the advice of his age-long friend and colleague, Doctor William Theodore Spears. The man was a consultant at the The Royal Ottawa Mental Health Hospital, had been for twenty-five years, and therefore easily found a place for Doctor Garloh.

It was a marriage of convenience: Doctor Garloh needed a place of shelter while he waited to hear more about the situation in Harper Rock, and the institution required an extra pair of hands to manage the influx of new patients. As they were already vastly overstretched, reminding the jaded Doctor of the services within the NHS, the best the institute could now offer its prospective patients – who were not deemed as a threat to themselves or others – was a virtual consultation.

One of the first patients that Doctor Garloh would meet was one Amalea Devadas. Having looked over the young woman’s file, he was quick to recognise the signs of chronic and untreated depression, coupled with the potential of post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) after having been present during a bomb threat and an unrelated hostage situation. The fact that the patient had lost several loved ones over the course of her young life would certainly make things a challenge as well, but he was optimistic about her recovery – as he was with all of his patients.

Lately, he had noticed a sad trend affecting the people of this world, which was a far cry away from the aristocratic whiners who pleaded anxiety for brushing their teeth and the systematic liars who were looking to fund their lifestyles from a signature of ill mental health. Lately, Doctor Garloh had been hearing many cases of PTSD, of people who had been in the wrong place at the wrong time, being caught in the crossfire of zealots and heathens. Not that it was a competition of pain, of whose tragedy could outrank another’s, but he was human and he did feel an ounce of disgust toward those of ignorant privilege. Fortunately, he was also a skilled pragmatist and could convince himself to hold not one opinion while he was in session.

As the middle-aged man watched the time, tapping the nib of his pen into the sallow paper on his notepad, he considered how he would approach this first encounter with Miss Devadas. Invariably, an initial consultation would comprise of an introduction and move on to goal setting. It was important to outline an objective and work on a plan to help get the patient to the point where they can measure their own success. Perhaps it was a little calculating and cold in appearance, but having a strategy in place to manage and cope with one’s mental illness had proven to be very beneficial for all kinds of people. Doctor Garloh hoped that it would help Miss Devadas too.

When their time came, he set the dialler to call his patient and waited. The hazy afternoon sun cast the living room of his hotel suite in a cool light, dampening the peachy hues of the walls and sandy carpet around him. He had set himself against one of those smooth and empty walls, seated upon the mahogany Chesterfield which looked vaguely foreign in the modern room. And as a matter of fact, so did he.

The Doctor was dressed in attire that looked appropriate for the 1930s, but still somewhat expected for his profession. A starched, grey multi-striped shirt and navy tie was tucked beneath a faun coloured sweater and then subsequently tucked into a pair of dark brown slacks. Judging by the small square in the bottom right-hand corner of his screen, his patient would be privy to a few inches of visibility beyond the top of his grey-haired head, around his broad shoulders, and would lose track of anything below his midriff. Still, he wore a pair of sandy loafers to complete the ensemble as though he was meeting the young lady in person.

The seconds it took Miss Devadas to answer the call gave the Doctor a few moments to agonise about the situation he was about to face, but when she did answer, he was a façade of practised benevolence.

“Good afternoon, Miss Devadas,” he said warmly, casually, and in a strong British accent. “My name is Doctor Frederic Garloh. How can I help?”

[Amalea]

The red-head’s nose wrinkled slightly as she realized that opening the curtain in her study might be wise. She may enjoy the darkness, but it wasn’t exactly conducive to a decent video session. It would be a bit disconcerting, she supposed, to be talking to someone you really couldn’t see clearly; it sounded almost like a horror film scene. Talk about a horrible first impression; she shook her head as she crossed the room to yank the curtain open allowing the afternoon sun to spill into the small room. Squinting slightly, she checked her appearance in the glass. She’d chosen a nice, yet casual, outfit. A soft, comfortable navy sweater had been put into service given the coolness of the day paired with dark-washed jeans that were only a half-shade off from the top. She still wore the necklace that had been a joint gift from Doc and Elizabeth for her birthday; it was a beautiful piece that also served as a reminder of what she stood to lose permanently. Frowning a moment, she used her tongue to adjust the ring in her lip slightly so the twists were in a better position; another reminder. Fingers ran through her red tresses, lightly tucking away any obvious fly-aways.

She leaned lightly against the window case as she watched the town below. Her office building was visible from here and she could just make out the outlines of people moving in the windows; it was almost time for a shift change so employees were hurrying to finish up for the day. She couldn’t blame them as her mind turned to her upcoming call. The red-head had no idea what to expect from video sessions or how they differed - if they even did - from an in-person session. Given she had no idea what to expect anyway, it really didn’t matter in the grand scheme of things. It was just something she had to do and see through. Her only hope was that her and the assigned therapist clicked and were able to work together; it wouldn’t be productive otherwise.

The beeping of her watch saw her return to the desk where she slipped into her seat. The wall to wall bookcase behind her protested slightly as she accidently knocked the chair into it as she sat; perhaps next session she’d find a different place to set up. The bookcase was jam packed and now that she thought of it, it might not make the most pleasing of backdrops. She shrugged lightly as she made a note of it. There was nothing she could about it now. It wouldn’t hurt anything for a single session; if anything it might give the therapist an inside look at her life.

At the appointed time, the program emitted a sound indicating there was an incoming call. The red-head took a deep breath trying to calm herself before reaching out to accept it and thus begin her newest journey. Her initial impression was that she was looking at a scene from a movie; the Doctor was dressed much like one would expect in a rather stereotypical setting. Oddly, the familiar look was comforting and put her a bit more at ease as he introduced himself. His British accent was pleasing to the ear and she was sure she could listen to him speak all day.

“Good afternoon, Doctor Garloh,” she greeted him warmly, “Please, Amalea or Lea are fine.” There was a brief moment of silence as she considered the best answer to the question posed.“I’d like to get my mental health under control preferably before it takes over my life.”

[Levi DAmico]

This is a NPC

Once the instant messaging window opened to provide him a face to put the medical file to, the Doctor autonomously took note of her features. Red hair burned like an aura behind a sculpted, porcelain face. Two eyes, as rich and interesting as Tiger Eye stones, flittered nervously within their insets. She looked… well. Healthy and young and full of prospect, which he hoped would give her as much confidence in these sessions as he had.

The Doctor responded in the same way he always did to his new patients, to meet their anxiety with patience and appreciation. He listened to her words, measuring his features to complement the decisive nature of her words. He couldn’t help but feel as though she had practiced her response, even if it wasn’t within quite this same situation. Her file made mention of her mother’s want to suppress any kind of professional help and that Amalea, or Lea as she preferred, had not sought any help since. It was possible that he was reading too much into this, but, it was a common coping mechanism for those suffering from stress and anxiety to rehearse simple actions until they felt they were right.

“Thank you, Lea,” he began, keeping eye contact. “I always find it’s very helpful to have an idea, a goal, in mind.”

He paused to scribble down the word ‘control’ on his notepad, finding the application here quite revealing, but yet again, it was too early to make any kind of diagnosis. He needed to hear more from Lea’s point of view and establish a better understanding of her individual situation.

“What would that mean to you, to have your mental health under control?” he asked softly, his tone as neutral as he could afford without pitching an emotionless, clinical question.

He would keep his questions light for now as he didn’t know exactly which category the young lady would fall under. Some of his patients merely needed to be seated in his office before they would pour their hearts to him, while others required a little guidance, a little coaxing out of their shells.

[Amalea]

The red-head had watched the screen carefully as she had spoken. She knew that this doctor was a professional that was specifically contracted to help her, but still needed the assurance that he truly believed she needed that help. That her mother had ruthlessly insisted she suppress the silly notion that she was depressed had made her wary of others. It had taken a great deal of courage and inner debate to ask her father for a recommendation for a mental facility that could be of any help. He had initially suggested a sanatorium as a way to get some recoupertive rest outside the city until she had asked if they were equipped to handle depression.

It was how she had ended up referred to this facility. He had told her it’d be hard but she’d have to tough it out. That would be no issue, she knew. She was stubborn enough to survive seven years in Harper Rock; she could get through this. It was the way he talked about it and the following conversation that had set her senses on end. She had been left with a suspicion that he didn’t believe her which was ironic given he had full access to her medical records and had since last April.It was disappointing to even consider as a possibility, but she really hadn’t been surprised. It’d become commonplace early on to be disbelieved about it and many other things.

Amalea saw no sign in the doctor’s conduct or words that he was anything but genuinely concerned. This simple, yet profound, observation allowed the blood thief to relax a bit. It’d take time for her to fully be at ease, but this was a critical first step. She knew that instinctively; if she didn’t trust him, this wouldn’t work. Oddly enough, she did trust him given his demeanor. Establishing trust, though, didn’t mean she was immediately going to be at ease and open up to spill her secrets as though she was talking to a long lost friend.

The eye contact was unexpected, yet oddly welcome as it made her feel safe.in It also went a long way towards reassuring the red-head that he wasn’t pretended to be interested. She nodded slightly at his statement knowing that a goal gave her something to reach towards; an incentive of sorts. “I can understand that given it provides something to work towards,” she spoke lightly, but sincerely. She knew her overall goal was a stretch that would take time to achieve and at some point she’d be best off making smaller goals as stepping stones.

“Everything,” was the simple, immediate answer to the question he posed, blurted out without much thought. It was true, there was no doubt there, but it seemed like a cop-out answer to her as she paused to organize her thoughts, embarrassed at the outburst. “Not having to hide part of what makes me me would be nice, I have to admit. But knowing that I could recognize what was occurring if things took a turn downward and take steps to ensure it doesn’t get out of hand would mean so much more. I don’t like feeling as if whatever this is can dictate my life or make me feel like I’ve lost control of myself or my actions.” She shuddered lightly at the memory of what had occurred in the throne room; that was a prime example of what she wished to avoid.

[Levi DAmico]

This is a NPC

As Amalea spoke, the Doctor was taking notes. Yet, he endeavoured to keep eye contact with her rather than stare down at his own chicken-scratch. Frankly, he was a lot better at typing than he was handwriting down his notes, but there was something more personal about this method and what he learned seemed to stay in his head for a lot longer. Perhaps it was the slower pace of things, the fact that his brain had to pause and channel words into script through his hand, pen, and paper. Typing on a keyboard was a lot more autonomous, where all the keys were pretty much the same and the brain had to focus less to pump out near-meaningless text. But he wanted to focus on Amalea, to show her that he was listening, that he took her seriously – perhaps because he took this a little too seriously.

They had always said that about him – his colleagues, pupils, family, friends, and even his patients. Doctor Garloh cared too much about solving the world’s mental health problems and it was because mental illness ran in the man’s own bloodline. It had skipped him of course, but his father had suffered from schizophrenia. It was a strain on his mother, who while upholding the role of nurse at the intensive care unit, had to support a withering husband and two children. Their parents had never approved of their marriage to begin with, so were unwilling to lend a hand. If it wasn’t for the support of her local community and fellow doctors and nurse practitioners at the hospital, life for the Garloh family would have been a lot worse.

Frederic had seen how not only medically defined mental health illnesses could torture an individual and their loved ones, but how the stress, the helplessness, the vulnerability, the depression, and the anxiety that often came with it played a hand in everyday people struggling to cope. He had seen cases in the past where treatment had been revoked or not sought out because of how people tend to value a mental illness like schizophrenia against depression. Thankfully, things were starting to change. The tide was turning, there was more publicity about mental health, more campaigns that were uncovering just how everyday these problems can be, which was helping people to unshackle themselves from shame and seek the help they needed. It put a genuine smile on his face to see people like Amalea attending these sessions.

“Well, it is true that our mental health, the way we are feeling and how we process our behaviours and emotions, can have a massive impact on our lives. So it’s good that you’re here, Lea. It’s good that you have rational, achievable expectations, and really want to be here.” He paused, retaining eye contact and a measured tone. “I really think that, together, we can make a positive difference and you can feel like you have the tools to cope.”

The Doctor looked down at his notes briefly, identifying a few of the words he had put down and the list he was compiling. While it was all well and good to make a promise, boost her confidence in these sessions so that she would work toward her goal, he did need to understand her condition in more detail. They wouldn’t be able to make a plan of healing if he didn’t know exactly what was causing the problem.

“Can I ask if there was something specific that triggered your coming here?” he asked with a delicately balanced portion of caution and confidence.