Work Text:
THE PLACE WHERE THINGS BREAK DOWN
“Do you want to know your diagnosis?”
Max stills. Blinks, once, twice, stares at Sebastian.
He’s sitting on the couch, about a couple of metres from where Sebastian’s at—he seems to be holding a piece of paper in his hands. The room is cozy, by all means, there’s cushions and soft things that help ease the senses; Max assumes it’s to make him comfortable, or something like that. The room’s quite well-lit with the fluorescent bulbs hanging above. He’d prefer if the lighting was warmer, but he’s learnt to just take what he gets with no complaint. Better safe than sorry, right? The sunlight filters through the blinds and makes the room feel just a bit more comfortable. There’s books on the shelves and half of them are probably on psychology or some classic literature—there’s art pieces hung on the wall and they complement the room quite nicely; and Max has to admit, they are a sight for sore eyes.
The atmosphere is serene, and they’re about nearing the end of their appointment. Fifteen minutes left on the clock. There’s a sign hanging by the shelf that reads You are welcome here. You have every right to be here.
But the thing is that Max doesn’t really feel here; doesn’t really feel welcome—here, or anywhere else, for that matter. It’s like he’s a ghost flitting through life, barely surviving, letting the tides of fate take him wherever he’s meant to go. His therapist’s warm, inviting office is in Germany, and so Max is here, a thousand kilometres away from home, Monaco, here in his therapist – and he cannot really call Sebastian a stranger, given how much he knows about him. It’s far too impersonal a label for whatever their relationship is.
The other thing is that Sebastian’s been seeing Max for about two years, as a client; and from there he’s been gradually learning the ropes and figuring out the inner workings of Max’s brain and how it all works. He has, over the course of said two years, unravelled a bit of his childhood—not the full thing, of course—discussed the constant stressors of work as well as the anxiety around his relationships with family and friends. He has told Sebastian about the gas station incident—had brought it up it so casually, in passing, that when Sebastian had told him to “Pause,” and subsequently asked him to “say that again?” Max had gone,
“Oh. Yeah, Papa does that.”
And Sebastian had been visibly shocked, mouth agape when the words tumbled out of his mouth; and then that had launched another dialogue that dug into his entire childhood—not that Max had ever wanted to go down that rabbit hole.
Their session today had begun with Max complaining about once again, his thing of being in the fight for another Championship and how stressful it all is. Max doesn’t divulge a lot of details about his job and what that all entails, but Sebastian does keep up with motorsports to some degree and so he knows that Max, is, in fact, a Formula One driver. He hasn’t told him he knows, yet. He rants about how he’s been feeling hopeless and and unproductive because his results haven’t been going anywhere and how he’s feeling more and more down and depressed and just overall like shit lately. And Sebastian had asked Max to try some positive visualization; suggested picturing himself in a safe space—like his home (might not be applicable in his case), or Mama's arms, where no one can hurt him and where all his worries disappear. And, to his credit, Max had tried—albeit half-heartedly, because he has always felt corny while doing this stuff. Most people do. It’s not his fault, really: it’s just that it’s all so cliche that there’s no way it works—is his train of logic.
“You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself,” He says, as he does every week. “I’m sure you’re being more productive than you’re letting on,” he routinely says, ignoring Max’s eye rolls. Then continues, “Hey. I’ve seen you pull yourself out of depressions like this one before. I know you can pull yourself up out of this one.” Max listens and it goes in one ear and out the other. He doesn’t bother even tuning in; filters it all out. It’s all the same and everything blends to one at this point.
The crux of the issue is that that’s exactly the problem. Max is quite tired of pulling. He doesn’t want to pull anymore. Even if it’s been inculcated into his being: never give up, keep pushing; baked into his bloodstream—he doesn’t feel the desire anymore. Sometimes Max finds himself wanting, craving, something that can help him: perhaps a magical faster car, or a larger, tighter support network, or anything to take the edge off. Anything to lift him towards at least some semblance emotional stability. To fix him. If he can be fixed, that is. Hehas often thought there was something fundementally, deeply flawed in him. Like an error in a machine’s code. Because he’s felt inhuman since he turned five and begged his Mama because he had only been five and hadn’t even gotten a kart—couldn’t—because he had to wait ‘till he turned six—the day Papa had told him that he would buy a kart and be his full-time trainer. The day his fate was decided.
Lots of people have said Max was born to race. Sometimes he wonders if that’s all he’ll ever be.
Sometimes he feels, really, that this battle completely pedestian—he's never had any power in this thing; fight, tug of war for choice with Papa. Control always seized from him, and worms left eating at the rind, the core, his brain. Isn’t hopelessness just shorthand for the human condition?
But he settles on an answer anyways. “Yes. Of course.”
Sebastian clears his throat, preparing to state the diagnosis as directly as possible.
“You have complex PTSD, and it manifests as your persistent anxiety and depression.”
That comes as a shock to Max; honest.
“There’s no way someone with your background couldn’t have it,” Sebastian also says, almost under his breath, and now Max is a little confused. What does he mean by your background–? There was nothing wrong with the way he was brought up; he’d always just chalked it up to tough love and how that’s normal– but was that all that a lie as well?
What can he believe anymore? Is anything real?
“PTSD?” He asks. Really?, he’s thinking. How?
“Not just PTSD. Complex PTSD. The difference between regular PTSD and complex PTSD is that traditional PTSD is often associated with a moment of trauma. Those who have complex PTSD have undergone continual abuse—trauma that has occurred over a long period of time, over the course of several years; usually in a child's formative years. Child abuse is a common cause of complex PTSD,” he says.
There's a beat of silence hanging in the air. Max's throat runs dry – can't say anything. Then the silence is interrupted, quite crudely, might he add, by the ring of an alarm clock. It seems then, that this session is over.
“It appears I’ve run out of time. Well, let’s continue this next week, shall we?” Sebastian says, warmly. It’s real but it feels fake. Or that’s what it seems to Max, at least.
“Okay.” Max replies, a little despondant; turns on his heel and walks out of the room. The warm air hitting his skin makes him flinch at the whiplash, and goosebumps spread across his arms. The first thing he does after he walks out of the room is pull out his phone from his pant pocket. In his twenty-six years of life, Max has never once heard of complex PTSD. And of course there's not that many results, but there's enough search results that pop up for him to click on each of them.
Scrolling through one website, it says:
Complex post-traumatic stress disorder (c-PTSD or cPTSD) describes a set of disruptive symptoms that emerge after experiencing inescapable traumatic life events, especially those of a horrific or threatening nature or which recur or accumulate over a period of time. Such events are typically interpersonal, often involving abusive relationships with parents, caregivers, or other responsible adults at a young age. It may also be sparked by torture, the experience of being a refugee or asylum seeker, being held in a concentration camp or as a slave, or living through a genocidal campaign or other organized campaigns of violence.
And Max blinks; because he doesn't think— he knows he hasn't been through that kind of trauma, not enough to cause trauma, he'd think. He still doesn't believe he's got this thing.
Scrolling through Wikipedia; it states that Complex post-traumatic stress disorder is a stress-related mental disorder generally occurring in response to complex traumas: commonly prolonged or repetitive exposure to a traumatic event or traumatic events, from which one sees little or no chance to escape. It also says it happens more commonly in war veterans and rape victims, which makes sense, he figures.
Max reads the list of symptoms, the white glow from the screen the only source of light in the dim white-tiled room of the hospital. It is non-exhaustive and extremely long. And it is not so much a medical statement on his state of mind as it is a biography of his life: The difficulty regulating his emotions. The tendency to overshare and trust people too fast, too hard. The inability to relax and difficulty sleeping. The dismal, perpetual, natural, self-loathing. The trouble he has maintaining and building relationships. The tendency to feeling quick to fear and anger. The overwhelming feelings of shame, how he's often felt permanently damaged and scarred. The difficulty with interpersonal relationships. It’s all true. These are all indubitably, undoubtably, him.
The more he reads and scrolls, the more he realises how every personality trait of his can be reduced to deep diagnostic flaws. He thinks he might never be able to comprehend how far this illness – let's call it an infection – has spread. How complete its takeover of his being, his identity has been. The way he talks about himself. The way he jumps to defend his parents. The way he can't trust people, let them in, no matter how much he wants to. The things he wants, craves. The things he's subconsciously attracted to. Everything—his entire soul, all of it—is infected. His trauma is literally pumping through his bloodstream. Sinking its claws into his flesh and injecting trauma responses into his red blood cells. You could say it's the driving force for his brain, the vessel, the car. It's ironic that he's a driver when he's not even the one in charge.
Then, if his trauma is what has defined him for the past god-knows-how-long, what is he without it? What is he, if all the layers are peeled back? A traumatised child at the epicentre of his being? Is the little child in him still curled up with his bruised knees pressed hard against his chest, heart thumping against his brain, scared and terrified of the world? Is he? Does Max Verstappen, Formula One racing driver and World Champion, even exist?
It is then, this totality that leaves Max consumed with grief. The horror of it, see— hands tensed up and crossed in front of one’s face, the overwhelming denial; but the reality hits like a truck, comes barrelling into the side of one’s body when one least expects it: the image of one’s flesh torn off in taunting gouges alongside the spine sewn to one’s brain. One certainly makes for a docile lamb in grief’s death, iron grip, meek in the face of its salivating lust when it grows teeth. Razor sharp canines. Get ready for it, brace yourself when the violence hits, when it stabs with so much pressure and force until one’s bones inevitably crack and snap under the unyielding pressure. Love twists into loathing, hands that should be tender hang one’s personal noose. Now wait for it: ribs cracking open like a capsized vessel. Now it’s sink or swim— the rot will burrow within to usurp all one holds safe. It takes over like an oath set under divine witness, but there are no gods here save for the weight of the still air in this van crushing one down, hands on one’s throat like heavyweight— give it up now, comes the proverb. At some point one will simply just have to rip the bandage off. Drive it home—like the kart—and park and lodge it in before one’s guts spill onto the cold hard square-tiled floor; the killing blow making one spasm, tremble, collapse. The blood is a sickly incardine against the white marble tiles. Organs fold in on themselves. It hurts. There’s no going back now: a knife hurts more on the way out, after all. Forcefully opened up tender and aching so called love, all in the name of which god— but which god would ever understand— the horrors of one’s life? Bite down on oneself, sharp teeth plunging into soft flesh and muffle one’s scream before anyone hears one’s cries, a weak little profession. Don’t show weakness— stay strong.
Accept this.
His entire world – or at least his perception of it – shatters and crumbles in front of his eyes, collapsing into rubble on him. He's the sole casuality, and maybe everyone he's ever interacted with, too, is a part of the wreckage – not that they're aware of that. He is still in stage one: Denial. And why wouldn't he be? It's been long hammered into him by Papa that showing emotion is a sign of weakness, a thing that makes Papa respect him less. Max still remembers the screaming, Papa telling him to shut up, or I'll give you something to cry about; the muffled sobs Max would let himself cry in the dead of night. For so many years he's worked so hard, labored to build himself a somewhat normal life, something so incredibly different from how he was raised. He would never want anyone to go through his childhood. But now, abruptly, every experience and hardship he's ever encountered in his life, every loss, every failure and foible, every championship won and every tear shed in his life, can be traced back to its root. The childhood that carved his being. Moulded him into the informidable beast everyone hails as a champion today. Him.
And that makes sense – it really does, and Max is still struggling to come to terms with the whole thing. His grip is getting shakier and more unstable by the second and his fingers are getting increasingly sweatier. Of course he's had so much trouble over the years. Of course so many people he's loved have left. Of course this is his fate. The walls of the hospital close in on him. He's getting tunnel vision. He doesn't belong here. He doesn't belong anywhere. He wants an escape and he needs it now. He needs to go home—where safety lies, but there is no home for him to return to. His apartment, sure, but then he'll have to face the weight of everything in his life. He needs to be alone, and fast.
For eight years, Max has thought he could outrun his past, the ghosts that haunt his consciousness. But today he realises that running isn’t working. He then, comes to the conclusion, that he needs to do something else. Fix whatever's fundementally broken in him. Like a mechanical fault.
And every villain’s redemption arc begins with their origin story.
恩
SOMETHING BIGGER THAN THE SELF
The anatomy of this beast that has ruled over the majority part of his life is Papa, and motorsports. He could rearrange the geography of his trauma, but it all boils down to one thing; and it takes the shape of Papa.
Max at birth seemed to be a healthy enough baby. He'd been seven pounds, two ounces, his length forty-eight point five centimetres long and the delivery lasted just 40 minutes. Max, to quote, ‘had chosen the right moment to come out’. And then his world had started blooming, right then and there. His life had been seemingly fine on the outside. So, the crux of it: Where did it all go wrong? When did Max first learn to hide the pain? To brush it away? To dismiss and deny? Why? Whatever reasons he attempts to come up with die on his tongue. When was it? Trace it back to the beginning, its roots.
Perhaps it was 2021. Silverstone—when his car crashed in the wall, 51Gs of force hitting him all at once; then his world had begun spinning and his head had started splitting apart and, then, he could barely stand—but he still could, and the only thing he couldn’t do was miss the next race? Miss the opportunity? Every point counts, he drills it into his head. Every point. Or maybe it was 2015, the newest rookie on the grid—the youngest Formula One driver yet, at seventeen years young—too young, everyone had said, not ready, because he skipped F2 and he hadn’t even turned eighteen yet? Even when Red Bull had taken a chance on him—because surely that had to mean something? Had hurled so many criticisms and doubts his way, and when it was time to show them that they were absolutely undoubtably wrong, because they didn’t know, they didn’t know the hell he’s been through to get here; when he went nose-cone into the wall in Monaco, when the excrutiating pain shot up his hands, enough to make him see heaven for a split second, even as he tucks them in close to prevent people from seeing? Or the year before that, when his hands were torn up so badly by the track vibrations that he needed to go to hospital to wrap them up? A scar in his mind, never completely healing? And was his Papa understanding? Did he care? Did he comfort Max, did he ever tell Max that it was okay—that he was safe to tell him anything, if he was okay or not? No. He didn’t. Of course he didn’t.
Was it during his formative years of his career spent in the Red Bull Family, 2016 to 2019; realizing all he would ever be to people is Mad Max—never mind his raw untapped potential, the talent that had yet to bloom; that it was safer to keep things, everything, hidden, than to let the world sink their sharp claws, tendons, in deeper? That it was never safe to express any sign of weakness, that the world was harsher than Papa ever was on him? That inadquate machinery punishes in the form of results?
Or—and roll back the script here—was it 2012, left at a gas station alone to reflect on what he had done wrong—even if he had no head or tail of what he could have possibly fucked up? Even when he was freezing, nothing in hand, at the gas station. Even when he had to wait for six or so hours for Mama to pick him up. Even when the waiting almost killed him. Even when he thought that day would be his last on earth? Or was it 2011, in the deafening silence that had stretched over a week, just because Papa knew that it would hurt? The painful wait, wondering how long this game would continue, wondering if Papa would ever talk to him again? Just because he did it to hurt Max? The day he realised that any weakness shown can be exploited—can be turned against him to hurt even more? Like a knife, stabbing into his heart. That it was better to be the one holding the gun than to be the one getting shot? That it was better to push people away first before they did it to him?
Was it 2006, when Mama and Vic were gone, when it was just him and Papa alone; and there was no one to defend him, to counter the sharp wounding words always repeating that he was never enough, that he was useless, that he should be a better person? That he could never show any sign of weakness? Was that when he started to bottle his emotions up? Did he ever cry? Let himself? Or was it when he started to realise that something was fundamentally wrong with his family, realising that the way Papa yells at Mama—the way Mama keeps him and Vic away from Papa when he was in a particularly bad mood that day or when he was drunk—was in fact not right? Having to protect Vic from Papa and Mama’s fights, knowing because he was the older brother, that this was his responsibility to shoulder, a necessary burden, a rite of passage he had to go through without any complaint? Knowing that he needed to hide Papa’s methods of training him when they went to the circuit to train every other day, because it would only cause her more pain? When did it all start? Was it the divorce? The turning point, the event horizon—the point of no return? Where was the line and when did he cross it? When? When?
Then it must have been 2002, when he was in a kart for the first time, after days and weeks and phone calls of begging, pleading for a chance, knowing that he could never fuck it up. That making a mistake, sliding off, bumping into a wall, was absolutely not tolerated in his household. Even when it hurt, when the kart shook around him and the pieces fall apart, even when Mama looks on at him with anxious eyes, full of worry, and he feels guilty—but he knows Papa would be angry if he had asked so many times only to mess it up so quickly, so he pretends that he doesn't feel it at all? When? What was the origin?
Perhaps it was none of those. Perhaps it had started young, far too young: when Papa had told him he would give him something to cry about, had beaten him, had made him feel the pain of the world crashing down on him. Formative years of despair now moulding Max into the man— person—or whatever he is, today.
He draws in a deep breath. Has breathing always been this difficult?, he thinks. Chest tight, sharp excruciating pain shooting through his veins; neverending.
Max Verstappen is a child of divorce. He was taught to stop fighting when it starts hurting.
恩
During his next session with Sebastian, Max brings up the topic of his diagnosis, and tells him about his desire to heal.
“The road to healing will be long and difficult.” Sebastian replies. That sounds about right, Max thinks, considering that he was about to relearn the ropes on how to be human all over again. And now he wants to learn how to be happy and strong and independent so he can support others—stop this cycle—instead of letting his… thing always take center stage. Max wants to be the kind of person people didn’t eventually leave. He knows he has to find out what is salvageable, find out if he truly has any good qualities underneath all those layers of trauma and hurt and training. If he is still like his father, beneath all those layers.
“In order to do that,“ Sebastian starts, “You need time and space away. Away from your father. It sounds painful, and it is. I know how intertwined he is in your career and life. The ability to step away from your father, even if he is your father, will take a lot of courage and effort. The most important thing, however, is learning how to take good care of yourself. To treat yourself kindly,” Sebastian tells him. Max nods. And so he knows with certainty what he has to do.
The very next day, Max decides it’s final. He cuts his father off; tells him, “Healing needs to be my job now.”
恩
He doesn’t quit Formula One altogether. Can’t. Because; One: Motorsports has been his lifelong passion, and Two: one of the things Sebastian had told him during their last session was that he should absolutely not quit his job after his diagnosis because survivors need structure and purpose in order to heal. Had also said healing from PTSD isn’t truly possible while he is still in danger. Had said that he could not convince himself that he was safe if he was actually unsafe around his father, and his presence felt threatening on a daily basis, so he had to leave.
But first, the crux of it: Why did he decide to go to therapy in the first place?
Well, it was first recommended by his former teammates after, well, the whole thing about the Red Bull Second Seat thing. They’d said therapy helped and apparently it could help him. Max had thought there was nothing to help him with at the time, but had conceded anyways and gotten a therapist. He had cycled through two other therapists before Sebastian.
Then he had met Sebastian. And Max had known he was the one for him.
Sebastian had handed him some books after his diagnosis—had said it might help. Max had accepted, of course. Then he had sat down and read through them. It was quite eye opening. The books had taught him that when one lives through traumatic experiences, their brain takes in the things around them that are causing the greatest threat, and they encode these things deep into one’s subconscious as sources of danger. What people often might assume are emotional outbursts—anxiety, depression, lashing out in anger—which, he has been there before—aren’t always just petty, emotional failings. They could be reflexes designed to protect one from things their brain has encoded as threats. And these threatening inputs are what many people call triggers. And it makes sense, he figures. He continues reading. Herein lies what makes complex PTSD so particularly unique when it comes to trauma diagnoses: Complex PTSD occurs when someone is exposed to a traumatic event over and over and over again, over the course of years. When you are traumatized that many times, the number of conscious and subconscious triggers bloats, becomes infinite and inexplicable. If you are beaten for hundreds of mistakes, then every mistake becomes dangerous. If dozens of people let you down, all people become untrustworthy. The world itself becomes a threat.
And it’s true, the world has been a threat. It has been ever since Papa hammered that point home into his skull—probably carved into the bone—had told him that the world is harsh, and that he should learn to survive. The world percieved as scary and uncompassionate through his lenses. He has never known trust. Not one person. Maybe Mama and Vic. But even then, he wouldn’t know if he could truly trust them. But Sebastian? It’s complicated. He can’t really not trust him— but he doesn’t know if he can trust him. The point is: the world is a scary place. It has always been and always will be. In his opinion, at least. But what Max has come to realise is that it fits. It’s him. It really is him.
It’s all him, and there’s no use denying it now. This is what has been haunting him. The root cause of everything in his life. Max wants to scream and grieve the life he could have had, wants to yell and shout, but cannot. Soul full of anguish and nowhere to put it. Pain. This is him now, and it is not of his own volition. This was not his choice.
So, what to do now?
Nothing. Nothing to do but heal.
