Page 104 of Borrowed Pain
"Dr. McCabe, resistance indicates you have unprocessed trauma around the issue of your professional competence. Let's examine that together." She was making my reluctance sound pathological.
"In through your nose for four counts," she continued. "Hold for four counts. Out through your mouth for six counts."
My body responded before my mind could resist. Years of practice made the breathing pattern automatic.
"Perfect autonomic regulation," Harrow observed. "Though I notice increased distress rather than decreased. Tell me, Dr. McCabe, how often do your breathing exercises fail to provide the expected relief?"
The question twisted like a knife in my gut. How often had I guided clients through breathing exercises while they remainedvisibly agitated? How many sessions had I offered techniques that provided only temporary relief?
"Your silence speaks volumes," she continued. "Therapeutic failure is difficult to acknowledge, particularly for practitioners who've built their identity around helping others."
"That's not—I do help people—"
"Do you? Let's examine your recent cases." She consulted her tablet. "Mrs. Kim, trauma survivor, eight months of treatment. Still experiences panic attacks severe enough to interfere with employment. Would you call that therapeutic success?"
My mouth went dry. "Progress isn't always linear—"
"Of course not. Particularly when the therapeutic education is fundamentally flawed."
I tried to remember my training, but the drugs made everything slippery. "Exposure helps... helps process... the neural pathways..."
"The neural pathways strengthen through repetition," she corrected. "Each time you guide a client through traumatic recall, you reinforce the fear response in their brain. You're not healing trauma—you're deepening it."
I blinked hard. I'd spent years asking clients to revisit their worst experiences, believing I was helping them heal. What if I'd been making everything worse?
"Your confusion is understandable. You entered this profession with noble intentions, but your training misguided you."
"But some people get better—"
"Some people heal despite therapy, not because of it." She leaned forward with false compassion. "Dr. McCabe, you've been practicing therapeutic malpractice while believing you were providing cutting-edge care."
"I—they… they do heal."
"Your techniques didn't save Iris Delacroix, did they?"
I tensed. "Iris was making progress—"
"Iris killed herself rather than continuing to live with memories your therapy couldn't help her process." Harrow's voice remained gentle. "She trusted you with her trauma, and your inadequate methods left her more damaged than when she started."
"No." I managed to force out the word, but it was barely a whisper.
"Yes, Dr. McCabe. Your therapeutic failure drove a vulnerable woman to suicide. And she's not the only one." Papers rustled.
My vision blurred. Professional memories flooded back—clients who'd missed appointments, conversations that felt stuck, techniques that provided only temporary relief. What if she was right? What if I'd been harming people while believing I was healing them?
"The evidence is overwhelming," Harrow continued. "Look at the relapse data, Miles. Insurance companies prefer chronic patients. Universities prefer ten-year grants. Somebody trained you inside an economy of trauma—not a profession of healing."
"That's not true—"
"You see it now," Harrow said with satisfaction. "You keep people sick to keep them paying."
"I don't—I would never—"
"Not consciously. You've been conditioned to view progress as more valuable than cure."
She was pathologizing my confusion, turning my struggle to process her assault into evidence of psychological dysfunction.
"Perhaps we should explore your motivations for entering this profession," she continued. "What psychological needs does playing therapist fulfill for you?"
