Page 107 of Borrowed Pain
She froze halfway to the exit, hand hovering over the door handle. "Dr. McCabe, this session is over—"
"Is it? Your reaction suggests we've touched on something significant." I settled back in the restraints, projecting a patient presence. "Your body language indicates acute discomfort with having your methods examined. Tell me about your first patient, Dr. Harrow."
The question landed like I'd thrown a stone into still water. Her shoulders tensed, and she turned back toward me with alarm painted across her face.
"That's not relevant to your treatment—"
"Your first patient," I repeated gently. "The one who made you realize traditional therapy wasn't meeting your needs as a practitioner."
She blinked rapidly. Her clinical composure showed cracks. "Dr. McCabe, you're exhibiting transference—"
"I'm conducting a clinical assessment." I spoke with authority. "Your defensive response to basic professional inquiry suggests unresolved trauma around early therapeutic failures."
Harrow's hand dropped from the door handle. "You're not qualified to assess—"
"Actually, I am. Licensed clinical psychologist, specialization in trauma response patterns." I spoke with matter-of-fact confidence. "And Dr. Harrow, you're demonstrating classic narcissistic defense mechanisms when challenged about your methods."
Her eyes flashed with fury before she caught herself and attempted to reconstruct her professional mask.
"Projection," I continued. "Deflection through pathologizing my observations. Textbook narcissistic defenses."
"Dr. McCabe—"
Harrow moved closer, but instead of the predatory approach she'd used earlier, her movements appeared compulsive, driven by a need to reassert dominance.
"You don't understand the complexity of this research—"
"I understand that you've created a sophisticated system to exploit trauma survivors while convincing yourself you're providing breakthrough treatment." My therapeutic training guided each word. "Dr. Harrow, your research isn't about healing trauma—it's about creating controlled trauma to manage your own psychological wounds."
Her breathing quickened. "That's ridiculous—"
"Is it? Let's explore your motivation for entering this field." I used the same gentle persistence that had helped clients access buried memories. "What drew you to trauma psychology specifically?"
"Scientific curiosity—"
"Try again." I waited patiently. "Healthy scientific curiosity doesn't require systematically destroying the people you claim to help."
Tension crackled through the sterile air.
"Your first patient," I repeated. "Tell me about the first person who made you feel powerless as a therapist."
Harrow's clinical mask shattered completely. "Shut up."
"There it is," I said softly. "The hurt that drives all of this."
"You don't know anything—"
"I know that healthy people don't torture trauma survivors for professional validation." My voice remained steady as the chemicals began to lose their impact. "I know someone who'd experienced genuine healing wouldn't need to break others to feel powerful."
She was breathing hard. The transformation was remarkable—the polished researcher dissolved, revealing something raw and damaged underneath.
"Stop it."
"Why? Because I'm getting close to something you don't want to examine? Dr. Harrow, what happened to you that convinced you trauma survivors deserve to be broken?"
She stepped backward, colliding with the wall.
"You want to know about failure?" Her voice cracked. "I'll tell you about failure. Sixteen years old, parents killed in a car accident, placed with foster families who—" She caught herself.
