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"After these last few sessions I think I have a diagnosis for you," said Dr. Holden with a smile. The man smiled a lot, a sweet chubby face like Steven's own. Steven liked the smile. It was warm and comforting in a place where he often felt very exposed and uncertain, despite the warm temperature in the warm and the plush couch.
He smiled back, nerves firing in an awful rush like they always seemed to be lately. "Lay it on me."
"You have Complex Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder," the doctor said, and quickly added, "The complex is a medical term, not a casual description. It's a form of PTSD that presents a little differently."
There was an odd lightness in his chest - relief. He breathed deep, trying to savor the good feelings. And the breath was forced from him with tears, because he cried so much, as his head dropped to his hands and he tried to steady himself. "O-okay."
"How are you feeling?" Dr. Holden asked warmly. "Happy tears or sad ones?"
"Neither? Relieved." He laughed a little and wiped at his eyes. "It's has a name. It's not just me being a freak. Is that normal?"
"It's very common," Dr. Holden agreed. "And we can make a more specific treatment plan from here on out, look into medications to help manage, and the strategies I've been teaching you before still apply."
Steven laughed a little more, shaking his head with disbelief. "So, um, when is it fixed?"
Dr. Holden hesitated. "What do you mean by fixed, Steven?"
"When does it stop?" He gestured to himself, as he thought about all the awful things that just seemed to build and build. "All the stuff we talked about. Freaking out over little things because it makes me remember stuff. The nightmares. Uh, the stuff you were saying about me feeling like it's okay for me to be waaaay too self-sacrificing. Is that the pill?"
The psychologist leaned forward in his chair, his voice very gentle. "Steven, I need you to understand that this is something that will get better. You're going to learn to manage it. You can live a very typical life." Tension coiled in Steven’s belly, filling his ears with ringing, and sprung out with an awful pain as the man finished, "But this is a chronic illness, and you'll be managing it for the rest of your life."
He was pink, and he stood so he wouldn't ruin the couch with his weight. "But you're supposed to fix it!" he snapped, fists balled up at his side. "That's why I'm here!"
"Steven, do you remember the exercises I taught you?" Dr. Holden asked. "The meditation."
"I-I know trans people, and they don't get fixed. They... They transition." Steven felt his thoughts swirling, a rushing screaming vortex as confusion and betrayal and hurt and anger hit him all at once. "You mean like that. They transition and the body dysmorphia goes away. So I do something like that and..."
"No, Steven," Dr. Holden said softly. "But it's going to lessen. It's going to be manageable, especially if we find a medica-"
"That's not good enough!" he shouted, and reined it in, feeling heat and power radiate off his skin. He closed his eyes, breathing deep. He was bigger than this. He had control. Deep, steady breaths. Counting. His voice was softer as he said, "Forever?"
"You can live with this and manage it," Dr. Holden reasserted. "But, yes. We don't have a cure for you, Steven. The symptoms will lessen over time, but they'll still be there."
He fell back to the couch, head falling back like it weighed a thousand tons. His voice cracked, tears stinging at the corner of his eyes again. "I'm like this forever."
"It'll get better," Dr. Holden promised. "It'll be hard work, but you've done amazing so far, Steven. Your new powers are being managed. You do your homework and come in ready to talk. There's no reason why you can't be whoever you want to be. Nearly every option is open to you."
He swallowed hard. "I don't think I can be a fighter today. I think it's gonna be a sad day."
"That's okay," Dr. Holden promised. "The war is done, Steven. You get to take weekends off. Your nine to five is recovering."
"It doesn't feel that way," Steven whispered.
"I know. But it'll get better," he assured.
Not stop, he thought, counting breaths on his fingers as he kept himself from glowing. Just get better.
Steven scheduled an extra appointment in the middle of the week. He went home. He cried with his family. He called Connie. They cried on the phone. He called Priyanka, and her steady voice did her best to walk him through the things his psychologist had already told him.
He felt like a fighter on Wednesday, and he came in ready for a life of it.