An anchor for the mind

We slept through the night, a profound, restorative collapse into the deep comfort of the hotel bed. For the first time in what felt like a lifetime, my mind achieved genuine, uninterrupted rest, sinking into the secure, familiar weight of Vic’s arms. The quiet exhaustion of the previous night’s intense intimacy had finally subdued the hyper-vigilance, locking the fear outside the bedroom door.

I woke first, gently disentangling myself from Vic's tight, protective hold. The room was washed in the soft, diffused light of an Auckland morning, quiet save for the slow, steady rhythm of Vic’s breathing. The silence felt heavy with the necessity of action. The confrontation with my psychological damage could no longer wait. I retrieved my phone and the contact for my therapist, Blake. I needed to act, not think. I sent a rapid series of texts, a furious, stream-of-consciousness summary of the last seventy-two hours—the terrifying recognition, the hospital chaos, and the diagnosis—needing to externalize the heavy truth. While Blake was fully aware of Patrick's history from previous discussions over the years, he wasn't aware of the recent events from the past few days until i told him. Charlie didn't think it was appropriate to tell him He responded instantly:

Blake: I am so sorry that you've been dealing with that. When are you available to meet? If need be, I can rearrange my morning appointments.

Me: I can meet you in an hour and a half. Want to meet you at your tiny office?

Blake: Yes, that works. I'll see you then.

With the appointment set, I headed to the bathroom, the cool tiles underfoot a welcome, grounding sensation. The shirts we had washed the night before were now completely dry, hanging crisp and neat over the shower curtain rod—a small, tangible victory of order over chaos. I took them down, folded them, closed the curtain, and stepped into a scalding shower. I let the water beat down, turning the cleansing into a ritual of preparation, allowing the heat to penetrate the deep muscle memory of the hospital gurney and the violent, uncontrollable shivering. Once dry, I took my time, brushing my teeth and putting in my contacts, layering the mundane acts as a necessary defense before facing the emotional exposure ahead.

I walked back into the bedroom and pulled on comfortable, functional clothes—layered cotton and soft denim—a deliberate choice to counter the vulnerability of the night before. I was standing at the desk, preparing to leave a note for Vic, when his low groan cut through the quiet. He rolled heavily onto his back, his eyes still heavy with sleep. “Where are you going, amore?” he murmured, his voice thick with sleep and concern.

“I was able to get an in-person session with Blake—we usually just have virtual sessions. I'll be heading out shortly,” I said, placing the pen down.

Vic sat up immediately, his eyes focusing on me with a sudden, intense concentration that wiped away all residual sleep. He rubbed his jaw, his eyes fixed on mine. “A session? That’s good. I’ll be ready in fifteen minutes. I’ll wait in the waiting room at the office.”

I smiled faintly. “It’s not exactly an office, Vic. Blake just has a small space in a building—more like a utility closet, honestly. Most of our sessions are walks. It’s less claustrophobic that way for many of his clients, and it just looks like friends taking a walk.”

He frowned, then nodded, the security implications registering instantly. “A walk is better than sitting in some small box. If you’re walking, I’m walking too. Can I walk right behind you?”

I shook my head, walking over to the bedside and sitting next to him. “It’s better if you don’t invade the session that closely. I need the space. But listen, Agent Riley has a bike. I ask him to lend it to you. That way, you could still be nearby me but not actually invade the session itself.”

Vic considered this, a slow, determined grin spreading across his face. “A bike. I like the idea of moving. That sounds like a good idea. I agree. If it helps you get through this, I’m in.”

“You have to keep at least one hundred feet away from Blake and I during the session,” I stipulated, holding his gaze. “I need to feel like I’m truly having a session with him.”

“One hundred. Understood,” Vic confirmed, already climbing out of bed and headed to the bathroom to take a shower. The lingering stiffness from the gurney was still evident in his movements, but his focus was absolute. “Let’s get this done.”

As we headed downstairs after his shower, brushing his teeth and getting dressed, the security detail was already on alert, seamlessly anticipating our movements. I pulled Agent Riley aside. “Vic would like to borrow your bike to be near me while I have my session with Blake. Would you be able to lend it to him?”

Riley was already moving toward the back of the SUV, his movements economical and swift. “Consider it done. I need ninety seconds to load it onto the rack.” He made a quick dash to where the agents’ door was located, went inside and came right back out with his bike. the sharp click of the bike rack securing the mountain bike confirmed his efficiency.

Once the mountain bike was securely attached, Agent Riley drove us the twenty minutes across the city to the building where Blake’s “office” was located—a discreet, unassuming block nestled in a quieter area, designed specifically for anonymity.

We got out. Vic and I introduced him to Blake, who was waiting discreetly on the sidewalk, calm, wearing simple walking clothes, and professionally observant. I briefly explained to Blake that Vic would be riding a bike near us while respectfully maintaining distance during the session. With a genuine, understanding smile on his face, Blake immediately agreed. “Not a problem at all. My priority is her comfort and safety, and if having him nearby helps you open up, that’s what we’ll do.”

Blake and I headed down the street immediately. Vic followed us down a moment later after retrieving the bike from Riley and quickly checking the tire pressure.

Once Blake and I were moving, I set a rapid pace down the sidewalk. I needed the physical rhythm—the movement of my legs, the swing of my arms—to contain the deep, anxious energy that had returned with the daylight. The initial politeness vanished as I launched into the details of the Patrick fiasco. I spoke in a continuous, measured stream, forcing the ugly, terrifying history out into the daylight, needing to externalize the burden of the last few days. I told Blake how Patrick had walked right out of the facility, and no one had said a thing. I recounted the terrifying moment I recognized him at the club Vic and I had gone to, and how I had convinced myself I was hallucinating, choosing not to accept what my eyes were telling me. The next day, he was brazen enough to dress up as a taxi driver I had used years ago—a truly poor get-up, but effective enough to confirm my dread.

I recounted reporting the incident to Cathal, Patrick's subsequent arrest, and his placement in a high-security prison. The story culminated with the bleak finality: somehow, Patrick was able to commit suicide while incarcerated. I then described the immediate physical fallout—my hospitalization for exhaustion and dehydration, the discharge, and then the return twelve hours later. Finally, I summarized Ronan’s - Dr. Hayes' - intervention—the battery of tests he ran, how everything was considered normal, and how he ultimately suggested I was experiencing acute physical and emotional PTSD from the culmination of all these events.

Blake listened without interruption, his posture open and completely nonjudgmental. His steady presence was a necessary anchor. When I finally finished the harrowing recital, he paused only briefly, letting the silence settle. His initial response was an apology—not for himself, but for the sheer violation I had endured while attempting to do my professional duty for the All Blacks.

“Treating patients with PTSD is always inherently difficult,” Blake stated. “It is a profound psychological response to a situation no human should ever have to endure. What makes recovery complex is that not every patient is the same; the path forward requires an intensely personalized, individualized treatment approach.”

We continued to talk about how I felt about the entire situation and then shifted to discussing Vic's reaction. I admitted that I didn’t actually know how Vic felt about it, as he actively avoided talking about it, often just tightening his arm around me or trying to change the subject.

Blake suggested that Vic and I sit down and discuss it directly, stressing that while it would be hard, it was necessary to move forward as a couple and process the shared trauma. “You can’t navigate this alone, and he can’t navigate his worry alone. You have to open that conversation, no matter how difficult it feels.” He also suggested that I journal about the events, the emotions, and the physical symptoms, noting that the physical act of writing can help externalize and manage the trauma. “Get it out of your head and onto the page. You control the narrative there.”

I agreed with Blake about the necessity of talking it over with Vic, and I also agreed with him about starting a journal. We agreed to meet again in three days.

The session concluded naturally as we looped back toward the building. Blake and I shared a quick, firm embrace, a calculated move to reinforce the public perception of us as two friends parting ways—a useful pretense, even though most residents of this quiet area knew his profession. They adhered to a code of silent respect, giving both he and his patients a notably wide berth. I searched for Vic down the path, and my eyes locked onto his, a powerful sense of grounded security washing over me. He pedaled up to me, covering the distance swiftly on the bike. He then dismounted the bike in a single, fluid motion. He moved with the quiet, inherent authority of someone claiming his ground, his presence immediate and solid.

“How was it?” Vic asked, immediately taking the bike’s handlebars in one hand and reaching for my hand with the other, his gaze searching mine for residual distress.

“It was necessary,” I replied, squeezing his hand. “He said it’s going to be a different kind of treatment for recovery.”

Vic nodded, his eyes scanning the quiet street and the SUV parked nearby, a perpetual guardian. “Different is good. Did he give you homework? Did he need me to tackle anyone?”

I laughed softly, a genuine sound, releasing some of the tension I hadn’t known I was holding. “No tackles needed. And yes, homework. We need to talk, Vic. And I need to start writing things down.”

“The hard stuff?” he asked, his voice low and protective.

“The hard stuff, Papa. All of it.”

“Okay,” he said, meeting his eyes, a promise in the look. “We’ll do the hard stuff. Starting tonight.”

We exchanged silent acknowledgement of the work done, and together, we headed back to the waiting SUV, the completion of this first, critical step toward recovery settling deep in my bones.

The drive back to the hotel was quick and silent, a necessary calm settling over the SUV after the emotional intensity of the session. Vic’s hand never left mine, a quiet reassurance that the hard work had begun. Agent Riley pulled into the underground parking garage, and we were quickly escorted back up to the secure floor. The familiar faces of our agents were a silent wall of safety as we re-entered our room, the heavy door locking behind us with a solid, satisfying thud.

The immediate need was simple: food. The morning's activity had burned through our energy reserves. I picked up the phone to dial room service.

Cosmos answered on the first ring, his voice smooth and professional. “Good afternoon, Cosmos speaking. How may I assist you?”

“Hi, Cosmos, it’s Deppgrl. We’d like to order lunch, please.”

There was a slight, almost imperceptible hesitation on his end. “I sincerely apologize, but the kitchen is completely closed until dinner prep begins. We had an unexpected surge in demand this morning due to the hotel being booked to maximum capacity, and we ran into a temporary issue with insufficient inventory. Our delivery of fresh produce and meat will arrive just before dinner service, but we simply cannot fulfill any further lunch orders right now.”

I frowned, glancing at Vic, who was already pulling out his phone. “Oh, I understand. It happens. Not an issue, friend!”

“I insist on assisting you immediately,” Cosmos cut in, his tone warm. “Please, order whatever you like from an outside restaurant—anything at all—and have it delivered. We will arrange for an agent to collect it at the security checkpoint and bring it right up. Of course, the charge for your lunch will be placed directly on my account. Consider it a thank you for your patience.”

I smiled, warmed by the gesture, though accepting such a generous personal offer felt inappropriate. “That’s incredibly kind of you, Cosmos,” I replied. “Thank free order something simple on our own. We truly appreciate the thought.”

“My absolute pleasure. Enjoy your meal, and please do let me know if you require anything else,” he replied, before ending the call.

I placed the phone back in its cradle, the silence heavy with decision. “Food truck,” I said. “I need something that's quick and off the hotel property."

Vic instantly agreed, his eyes lighting up at the thought of leaving the hotel again. “I’m in.” After a moment of rapid discussion, we settled on a local food truck I knew well. It, unfortunately, was in Scott’s neighborhood only a few blocks away. That was something that I wasn’t going to tell Vic until we got there.