Chapter Text
The breakdown had felt sudden, like it came from nowhere. However, for Trinity, it had been a long time coming.
The year had started badly and after the summer and Langdon's return, it had gone from bad to worse. Summer turned into autumn and before Trinity had even noticed anything was amiss, winter crashed into Pittsburgh, bringing along with it a slew of new injuries.
The darkness did nothing to lift Trinity’s spirits.
It was just another season to get through. Soon she would be done with her R2 year and it would get easier after that. It had to, hadn’t it?
Trinity, at some point, had recognised the signs. She just hadn't had the energy or will to do anything about them.
Maybe it was naivety, maybe it was wilful ignorance, but Trinity had pushed any thought of whether she needed to worry about the state of her mental health to the back of her mind and locked it there.
She couldn't afford to fuck up everything she had worked so hard towards. She told herself she had full control of her circumstances.
She had clawed her way out of the darkness once before, after her best friend had died.
Trinity could do it again.
She just didn’t know how.
Weeks blurred into another, with Trinity throwing all of herself into work, just so she didn't have to think. It worked for a while.
Until it didn't.
Months of barely eating, barely sleeping were beginning to finally catch up to her when it finally happened. She could no longer pretend she was just fine, she could no longer keep her head above the water.
The energy drinks felt like a lifeboat someone had poked holes through. Still, she downed them, willing the palpitations that came alongside them away.
She brushed aside the concerned looks from her friends.
She just had to get through this week. It had to get better after.
At the end the day that had tipped the balance of Trinity's precarious mental state had been ordinary in a sense. The worst kind of ordinary, where you let down your guard just long enough for someone to deliver the final, killing blow.
And Trinity had let down her guard.
What found her wasn’t a single enemy but a never ending barrage of death.
First it had been an innocent fall that turned out to be a massive brain bleed. Then, a child, stabbed by a relative in psychosis. Finally, a couple on their honeymoon, struck and pinned between cars by a drunk driver.
None of them had made it.
She would never forget the desperate wails of the mother, when she and Robby had delivered the news that her three-year-old hadn’t made it.
The mother had pleaded and begged for help, for God or anyone. In the family room, she had thrown herself at Trinity, sobbing, grasping at her scrubs in a desperate attempt to find anything to bring her child back.
Trinity had stayed with the mother until the social worker and crisis counsellor had arrived.
Robby had patted her shoulder after, telling her to take a few minutes to herself.
“We did all we could.” He had said, rubbing his hands over his eyes tiredly.
“We should have done more.”
Instead of taking a break, Trinity had thrown herself into the next case that rolled through the ambulance bay doors.
It had been a lost cause from the beginning. The woman had massive crush injuries from a car barrelling into her and her new husband. She had been pinned between two cars for the better part of an hour and when she was finally released, it was clear she had almost no chance of making it.
Trinity had tried to save her.
It hadn’t been enough. She hadn’t been enough.
The monitors still droned on around her, oppressive, reminding her of her failures.
She didn’t even notice when Perlah turned them off.
“Time of death, 5.19pm.”
It was all too much.
Trinity had felt like she was suffocating. There had been only one thought in her mind, she needed to feel something physical to counteract the emotional turmoil the day had brought upon her.
She knew she shouldn't, but all she could fcus on had been the feeling of the scalpel in her pocket, burning a hole into the fabric of her clothes.
When had she picked it up?
It didn’t matter to Trinity, all that mattered was that she had it.
She had stumbled blindly towards the bathroom, not caring who saw her.
The first touch of the scalpel on her thigh had felt like heaven. The one after? Hell.
Choking back sobs, all Trinity had been able to focus on was the subtle trail of blood splattered around the floor, where the scalpel had dropped from her hand.
Each of the little droplets taunted her, marking the cold floor with the sins she had committed.
The attending psychiatrist had wanted to admit her into the psych unit for at least the night, maybe longer, but Trinity, with the help of Robby had managed to negotiate it down to a night spent at the ED under the watch of her colleagues instead.
Samira had volunteered, immediately. She had been the one to drag her away from the bathroom stall, softly murmuring under her breath "We've got you, you're okay Trinity. You're okay.. it’s okay..."
They would make a plan in the morning.
They had found her a quiet room, set the lights low and helped her lay down on the bed.
Trinity felt spent, just drained.
It had been years since she last acted on the self-harm impulses and she had felt the shame cloud her senses.
Emotional turmoil being too much to handle, compounded by the shame, she turned her attention to the physical pain. Her thigh radiated with the oh so familiar feeling, one she had hoped she might not ever have to feel again.
She felt like she had been transported back into her teenage body, cuts fresh and stinging, mind screaming.
“You’ll feel a little prick now, Trinity.” Samira’s voice sounded distant, tinny.
Trinity didn’t respond, she had just let Samira carry on with her work. Samira had proceeded to clean and suture the cut on her thigh with utmost care, taking her time with each knot. The wound wasn't deep, wasn't the worst Trinity had inflicted upon herself but it was the first in years.
She was so tired.
Samira stayed the rest of the night by her side. Trinity drifted in and out of a dreamless sleep, no doubt aided by whatever sedative they had given her, but each time she opened her eyes she saw Samira. Her presence was a calm in the storm inside Trinity's head.
Looking back at the night, Trinity didn't remember if she ever even thanked her for all that Samira had done. Probably not. She didn’t remember much of the night, not clearly anyway.
In the morning, she was released to go home with Dennis. It was unlikely upstairs would have found her a bed in time.
Robby had walked her to the car, once again awkwardly patting her shoulder. His eyes had never quite met hers and for that Trinity had been able to muster an ounce of gratefulness. She didn't know if she could have faced seeing his disappointment. Once, Trinity might have thought of him as a mentor of sorts but in that moment, she had felt like they had both failed each other. She knew Robby's mental health couldn't be faring much better than her own had.
She just had been the one to break first.
Not looking at him, she remembers clumsily entering in the car and just sitting there, clutching her backpack to her chest. Someone had taken it from her locker, probably to check for any more hidden scalpels.
She had sat in the car for a while until she had felt Dennis buckle her in and start the car. Trinity thinks she hazily watched the city lights flicker past as he drove them home in silence. With Dennis supporting most of her weight, she had staggered from the car into the apartment, then into her room and finally, feeling her legs give out, she had collapsed into her bed. Once she was in bed, she barely had the energy to discard her scrubs, to throw them on the floor next to her bed before putting on an oversized t-shirt. That would have to do.
It’s not like she had the energy to care.
It was a while until she had the energy for anything. Days pass and Trinity is none the wiser for it.
As a concession to not being admitted she had to agree to 18 mandated in-person therapy sessions at the PTMC psych department outpatient clinic.
Fantastic. She would have to drag herself there twice a week. Until she has completed them, Trinity knows she won’t be allowed back to work. And even after, she will have to keep seeing the therapist, until they are satisfied with her progress.
It all made sense, of course.
Nine weeks, Trinity calculated. Nine weeks of rotting in her house. The house with no sharp objects. She knows Dennis has removed them all, probably taken them to Robby's place. Trinity knows he still has the key from when he was going to go on his vision quest but ultimately had decided against it. But Trinity knows he never asked for the key back.
At least Dennis hadn't moved out of their shared place yet. Trinity would never admit it out loud, but she thanked whatever higher power it was who had made her take him in, and for the one who had made him stay.
As much as his behaviour as a roommate irritates her on a daily basis, Trinity doesn’t think she would have lasted a week without him. Actually, she knows for a fact she wouldn’t have. She would have ended up back at the hospital, if she was lucky.
Or unlucky, depending on what angle you looked at it from.
But as luck would have it, Dennis never left her. He filled the oppressive silence of the house with his weird music, his shit singing, and his stupid stories about the farm.
It should have made Trinity feel like she was being caged in.
It does not.
It felt like someone cared for her. That should have scared her.
It does not.
A week goes by.
Trinity stares at the ceiling in her room. She has stared at the ceiling every day, only getting up when she absolutely has to. Dennis drives her to her therapy sessions, waits outside in the hallway like a little puppy waiting for his master.
Trinity thinks she should thank her. She doesn't find the words.
She goes back to bed when they get home.
Things come back to her in flashes, but mostly she feels like she is watching them through a film or a window.
Detached. Cold.
She feels the scalpel on her skin, feels the blood. Drop here, another there.
She feels a scream stuck in her throat. She isn't sure if she is making a sound or not.
Everything is too much and not enough at once.
She knows she has fucked up when she sees Samira stare at her with horror.
Next thing she remembers is being escorted, or actually half carried, half dragged by Samira into an empty exam room, where she and Robby look at her with equal amounts of pity and horror. Their mouths move but there is a rush of blood, panic and ringing in her ears and Trinity doesn't hear a word.
She just wants to shut her eyes and disappear.
She is vaguely aware of Perlah inserting an IV in her arm. She knows they're giving her something to help her calm down.
A sedative.
She knows she needs it.
She shouldn't have to need it.
Everything is weightless and fuzzy after that.
Trinity tries not to think about that night too much. Tries not to think about anything. She knows Dennis has worn a hole in the carpet outside of her room. He brings her food. She pretends to eat. He pretends to not look like he is worried sick. She only eats when Dennis sits by her bed, refusing to leave until she has had a few bites. Goes to the toilet when she can't hold it in anymore.
She has little energy to care.
She sees the bags under Huckleberry's eyes get darker with each passing day.
She thinks she should try to comfort him but she doesn't.
He stays with her for the first week and a half, the leave no doubt subtly arranged by Robby. Trinity also knows Dennis is sending him sporadic updates about her. She thinks she should protest but maybe he deserves to know. At least a little bit. Anything to quell the gossip of the hospital.
Better to have a trusted source for information than rumours that would take flight once Princess got wind of them.
One day, just before Dennis is scheduled to go back to work, Robby sends her a basket of pastries and fruits. There are a few different kinds and along them in the box, Trinity finds a handwritten note. She can't bring herself to read it, instead stashing it in her desk drawer. She still can't handle his disappointment, especially not when she doesn't know if he is more disappointed in himself or her.
She thinks it's the former.
Maybe she will read it later, maybe she won't.
The pastries are still warm, she notices. Had he come by to deliver them in person? She had no idea. Time had no meaning to her.
Just to prove a point to herself, she nibbles on a fluffy pastry, barely tasting it, before forcing the rest of the box into Huckleberry's hands.
"Go eat them with my avocados or something, Huckleberry."
His breath catches at the sound of his nickname being used and Trinity thinks she can see him blink back the threat of tears in his eyes. She hasn’t used the nickname for a while. It just hadn’t felt right in her mouth until now.
“Yeah, okay. Avocados. Yes.” He stammers, turning away from her. Trinity swears she hears a whimper, poorly disguised as a cough.
It feels like a tiny step in the right direction, finally.
When Dennis returns to work he is replaced by Samira.
Caring, empathetic Samira, who sits with Trinity. Sits with her despite everything Trinity has put her through.
Who washes her hair for the first time in two weeks, while talking about anything that is not about the hospital or how Trinity is feeling or not feeling.
Mundane, ordinary. Everyday stuff.
If Trinity thought she could cry, if she thought she had any tears left, she would have done so.
With Samira, she eats a little more. Gets up and actually comes to the kitchen table. Forces a small plateful down.
It stays down.
A little bit of empathy with no strings attached seems to go a long way.
Her hospital-assigned therapist is a middle aged no-nonsense woman, who Trinity thinks must have been a bomb disposal expert in a previous life.
Stoic, unflappable.
Trinity thinks maybe she is a sort of a bomb diffusing expert in this life as well. She doesn’t remember much from her first visits, but by the second week she is more aware of Dr. Fern. Her steely eyes pierce Trinity, who finds herself picking at her cuticles under the scrutiny.
Trinity has been to therapy before, so she knows how this should work. She says words she thinks the therapist wants to hear, they skirt around her issues and she goes home.
None of this is going how she planned it in her head. Dr. Fern hasn’t asked her once how things make her feel, or any of the multitude of therapy platitudes Trinity had been expecting to hear.
Instead, throughout their sessions she seems to be finding all the loose ends in Trinity has been trying to hide and guard, and instead of tucking them in gently, she feels the therapist start to unravel them.
“Have you noticed that avoidance of things hasn’t been a great strategy in life?” Dr. Fern asks.
Trinity scoffs. “Can’t say I have.”
“Okay, sure. Can you think of an instance when avoiding a problem has been beneficial to you?”
Caught off guard by the direct question, Trinity finds herself thinking, wading through memories of her earlier years all the way up to medical school.
She really can’t think of any examples. As much as she wants to prove the therapist wrong, she comes up empty handed. Many things in her life would have been easier if she hadn't made a massive mess of them by running away and pretending none of it had ever happened.
So no, she can't actually think of an answer. Not one that would satisfy herself or Dr. Fern, anyway.
But Trinity being Trinity, instead of answering, she merely looks out of the window. The weather is gloomy and she can see raindrops gently falling, making patterns as the rain rhythmically drums on the glass behind the therapist.
“I think you would benefit from going to this group, Trinity” Dr. Fern hands her a flyer.
Trinity turns away from the window and looks at the paper now in her hand.
‘Café Woes - a weekly discussion group for LGBTQ+ healthcare workers dealing with trauma-related conditions’.
She is about to protest when Dr. Fern continues. “It’s a small group, with a therapist loosely guiding the discussion between pre-determined pairs. The group meets once a week, and each group of people is scheduled to meet four times. I would count it towards your mandatory sessions, provided you complete the full length of the group meetings.”
Four meetings would mean two less weeks of rotting alone staring at the ceiling, it would mean being able to go back to work that much sooner. Trinity almost thinks about it, before shaking her head.
“I don’t like group things. I’m not going to sit in a circle and join hands with strangers or any of that bullshit, I can’t, I won’t… it’s….no.” Trinity feels panic rising inside her chest, tries to string together a coherent sentence, but finds herself feeling like she has just ran a marathon, uphill. She ends up gasping for air.
She fucking hates group therapy. She would rather set herself on fire than go to a stupidly named group like that.
“And that is exactly why I think you would benefit from going. No more avoiding things. This is a low-stakes group, hosted in a non-clinical environment. One of my colleagues hosts it at a small café not far away from the hospital. No hand holding required." Dr Fern smiles, trying to look reassuring. She knows when to push and when to give space, Trinity thinks.
"The next group begins in a week, so let me know on Thursday what you have decided. If you really think you're not willing to give it a try, we will continue with just our twice-a-week sessions here.”
Trinity looks at the calendar hanging on the wall of the room. It is a Monday, so it means she has a few days to think of excuses not to go.
“Okay, I think that concludes our meeting for today. I will see you on Thursday, but if you have any questions, please give me a call anytime. I’m on call this week so you don’t have to worry about disturbing me. Take care, Dr. Santos."
Trinity thinks Dr. Fern using her title and last name probably means something, but decides she won't dwell on it, won't push.
She is tired and wants to go home.
“Thanks.” Trinity says quietly as she gathers her stuff and makes her way into the hallway. She had agreed to meet Huckleberry outside of the department, but there is no way she can just walk right out and trust that her legs will carry her all the way to the car without buckling.
So, instead, she makes her way into the small, blissfully empty waiting area and gracelessly plops herself down into a plastic chair. Sighing, she runs her fingers through her hair, not caring if she makes a mess of it. This hospital has definitely seen her look worse than on a random Monday after an hour of picking apart her brain to find the faulty wirings. She breathes in slowly, trying to quell the emotional storm brewing inside of her. Who is Dr. Fern to read her like that, to call out things she's definitely tried to keep to herself?
Her therapist, that's who.
Trinity looks at the flyer. What a stupid name for a group.
She sits in the waiting area long enough that the panic begins to settle and she can actually take note of the things around her. There is a stack of stupid magazines on the table next to her. A little plant, looking like it could use some water, sitting sadly in the corner of the room. Trinity thinks she probably looks just as sad.
Then, she looks up and finds a notice board, filled with all kinds of ads and flyers.
One for a support group for bereaved parents. Another for young widows.
A virtual group for house fire survivors.
Surprisingly enough, though not unnecessarily, a pet loss support group.
Then, her eye catches the very same flyer currently in her hand. It looks almost the same, only on the notice board someone has inserted a handwritten post-it right on the corner of the flyer, almost hidden by the edge of another flyer just next to it. Trinity gets up, curiosity getting the best of her.
~ COFFEE SHOP DATES FOR SAD THEYS, GAYS, AND LESBIANS ~
Whoever has left the note has also drawn a cute little rainbow below the writing. Trinity looks at the note and surprisingly, she snorts. That's a better name for the group, almost makes it sound inviting.
Bringing her gaze back to the note, she finds herself thinking.
What does she really have to lose?