From: amperage@aol.com (Amperage)
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: Evaluation/Therapy (1of 6)
Date: 25 Apr 1995 22:43:46 -0400

Evaluation written by Amperage@AOL.com


DISCLAIMER
No official permission exists for the assessor to use any of the
characters from the X-files in this Assesment. 

REPORT OF PSYCHOLOGICAL ASSESSMENT
FOR: mental status evaluation and pre-treatment recommendations

    Name:  Fox Mulder (NMN)
Position:  Special Agent, FBI
      SS:  459-33-2909
Assessor:  Emmaline Davis, PhD. Clinical Psychology 
           License #1579564

REASON FOR REFERRAL
Agent Fox Mulder was assigned to case X179915 by Associate Deputy
Director Skinner at the request of the Director.  The granddaughter
of junior senator J. Howell of Missouri was missing and
the mother, currently under psychiatric care, claimed alien
abduction.  Agent Mulder and his partner, Special Agent Dr. Dana
Scully investigated.  Evidence lead the agents to a small cairn of
stones where the child had been buried by the father; the alien
abduction story having been created as a cover.  However, the
child, Anna Lisa Howell-Norgrove, 4 at the time of her
disappearance, was not found in the cairn.  Evidence at the crime
scene suggested that she had pushed her way out, not being dead as
her father had supposed, but merely unconscious.

An extensive search was launched to find the missing child,
culminating in the discovery of Anna Lisa's body in an abandoned
house.  The child had been violently raped and beaten before being
strangled.  Her body was fresh on discovery, no more than 5 or 6
hours old.  Agent Mulder, believing unjustly that he had not done
enough to save Anna Lisa's life, began hitting his hand against a
stone fireplace when Agent Scully attempted discuss his guilt
feelings with him.  Despite her repeated attempts to reason with
him, Agent Mulder would not refrain from his self-destructive act. 
Eventually Agent Scully got two local sheriff's deputies to 
restrained Agent Mulder until he was able to control his behavior.

Agent Scully took her partner to W.A. Jackson Memorial Hospital, in
Albertville, Missouri, for treatment.  Agent Mulder had broken his
smallest finger and lacerated the flesh along the edge of his left
hand, requiring a splint and nine stitches.  Due to the manner in
which the injury occurred, Agent Mulder, along with being given
several pain killers, was also sedated.  He was discharged
into Agent Scully's custody following treatment to his hand.

Agent Scully, working in her capacity as a licensed medical
doctor, requested that this evaluation be performed.  Her
request was joined by Associate Deputy Director Skinner's order
that an evaluation be performed on Agent Mulder and that any
necessary actions be taken as needed to insure Agent Mulder's
mental health.

TESTS ADMINISTERED
No tests were administered.  Due to Agent Mulder's training and
familiarity with psychological tests, it was felt that the normal
battery of tests would provide very little reliable data of a valid
nature.

Agent Mulder has taken the MMPI and MMPI2, as well as the WAIS-R,
WMS-R, and SB:FE at previous times.

PAST PSYCHOLOGICAL HISTORY
Agent Mulder has been involved in-house therapy three times in the
past, twice under the recommendation of a superior.  The first
instance of mandatory therapy came after the shooting death of
another agent, for which Agent Mulder blamed himself.  This therapy
was short-term and superficial.  

The second time Agent Mulder was involved in a therapeutic process
was also mandatory, when he was working as an Analyst for
Behavioral Sciences, writing profiles.  Agent Mulder experienced
identification with a killer whom the press dubbed the "Prairie
Killer"  that lead to eccentric, maladaptive behavior.

The third case of therapy involving Bureau therapists came three
and a half years ago.  Agent Mulder reported frequent nightmares,
increased irritability, strong feelings of guilt, inability to
experience intimacy--whether with friends or in a romantic
involvement--and phobic behavior.  Agent Mulder was diagnosed with
Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and intensive therapy initiated. 
After four months, Agent Mulder transferred to a private therapist,
Dr. Heitz Verber.

The diagnosis of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder was kept by Dr.
Verber, who initiated deep regression hypnosis therapy relating to
the possible abduction of Agent Mulder's sister.  Agent Mulder
admitted psychogenic amnesia concerning his sister's disappearance,
and Dr. Verber's therapy centered around this incident.  In
addition to the original diagnosis Dr. Verber added the diagnosis
"delayed onset."  After nine months of therapy, Agent Mulder was
able to remember the incident concerning his sister's abduction and
terminated therapy with Dr. Verber.  Dr. Verber believed Agent
Mulder's termination of therapy to be premature and noted this in
his report to FBI mental health services.


CURRENT PSYCHOLOGICAL CONDITIONS        
Agent Mulder currently suffers from chronic Post Traumatic Stress
Disorder, delayed onset.  (DSM-IV code 300.81)

HISTORY AND BACKGROUND INFORMATION RELATING TO POST TRAUMATIC
STRESS DISORDER
Agent Mulder was the first born child.  His mother was a homemaker,
his father a history professor.  According to Agent Mulder he was
not of the sex his parents had desired and when he was four and
allowed to attend the university kindergarten a year early, his
mother had a second child, a girl who was named Samantha Mulder. 
His own name had been "something of a joke:"  his mother had not
planned on giving birth to a son and had no male name prepared. 
His father thought the newborn infant looked somewhat feral and
suggested Fox. The manner in which Mulder explained his sister's
birth and the vignette concerning his naming suggests that Mulder
may have always experienced emotional distancing from both parents,
even prior to the disappearance of his sister.

Agent Mulder's sister disappeared one evening after Agent Mulder
had been assigned babysitting chores while his parents went to a
neighbor's home for an evening of bridge.  Fox Mulder and his
sister were watching television and playing a popular board game
when, according to Agent Mulder, they experienced a power outage. 
A light came into the room and Samantha Mulder was taken from the
room by a force.  Agent Mulder reports seeing an alien figure that
paralyzed him, telling him that everything would be "all right" and
that his sister would be returned.

Agent Mulder was found on the floor of his parents' home, curled on
a rug with his father's gun in his hands.  He was found to be in
shock and selectively mute and was given a sedative.  When he woke
he was unable to remember any of the incidents of his sister's
abduction.

Following this incident Fox Mulder's father became abusive towards
his son, blaming Fox for the disappearance of his sister. 
Eventually the father abused his son in the mother's presence.  She
responded by asking that the father leave the household.  No
divorce was ever filed, however Mulder's parents have not lived
with each other since this period.

FINDINGS
Agent Mulder is currently working in the Violent Crimes Department,
investigating cases involving unexplainable phenomenon.  He came
early to the interview, and was well-groomed, dressing
appropriately to his position.  He was cooperative and soft-spoken
throughout the interview, however, a highly developed sense of
humor appeared early on in the interview and lurked throughout all
of his responses.  He is highly intelligent and possesses an
eidetic memory. (Past tests indicate WAIS-R score of 147 and a
SB:FE score of 150, as well as a perfect score on the WMS-R.) 
While Agent Mulder presented the image of an assertive, confident
individual, questioning revealed a somewhat suspicious, aloof
personality that is also self-depractory and threat sensitive.

We began the interview with a discussion of the events leading to
this evaluation.  Agent Mulder readily admitted that his behavior
had been inappropriate.  "I hared out,"  he told the examiner,
embarrassedly.  When asked why he thought he engaged in the
self-destructive behavior he thought a moment and answered
simply that he felt had felt guilt over the child, Anna Lisa's,
death and had reacted impulsively to his feelings.  He was
extremely uncomfortable discussing his actions.  When asked if any
of the guilt he felt could be related to his sister's disappearance
he leaned his head back, smiled, and commented  "I think anyone
with a mail order PhD could figure out that no-brainer."  This type
of response was typical throughout the interview.  

His affect throughout the interview was appropriate.  His mood was
continually anxious, but he was extremely ruminative.  He answered
several questions with remarks that while humorous were also highly
ironic, sarcastic, and self-condemning.  It is this assessor's
opinion that Agent Mulder suffers from very low self-esteem. When
asked to describe others' opinion of him he stated "I'm the FBI's
most unwanted.  `Good old Spooky Mulder who sees little green men
and went around the bend years ago.  And he finally got caught.'" 
Later in the interview he said that "I don't know how Scully puts
up with my Bulls--- sometimes.  I don't know if I'm worth all the
trouble she goes to."  When I stated that this seemed a very
critical assessment of himself he smiled a moment. "Well, you've
never seen me on a tear.  Obsessive on parade."
 
He displayed avoidant behavior when pressed about areas of his life
outside of his professional work, defending his lifestyle with
explanations that he had "been in a some relationships.  They
just never worked out." His current next of kin is his partner
Dana Scully, rather than either of his parents, with whom he admits
to having only a strained, inadequate relationship. When asked if
he has any friends who are not involved in his work, Agent Mulder
shrugged and did not verbally respond.  When then asked who his
friends were besides Dana Scully he considered the question
carefully.  "The Guys at the Lone Gunmen (A magazine dedicated to
finding the "truth" behind many supposed "conspiracies") umm. .
.there's a few people I know at work who don't think I'm completely
insane. . .I know some people who've helped me with cases. . .I
play pick-up [basketball] games with some guys from Quantico
behavioral.  They think I'm crazy, but I have too good of a jump-
shot."  When asked how much time he spends a week either at work or
working he was unable to respond.  When I suggested hours ("50
hours a week?  60 hours a week?" The normal FBI agent work load.)
he smiled and shrugged again, suggesting to me that almost all of
his time is spent in the pursuit of his work.  While many agents
spend most of their time on the job and many spend most of their
time thinking about the job, I believe Agent Mulder is beyond the
point of mere dedication.  His attitude is obsessive to the point
of being maladaptive.  

Agent Mulder does not find this behavior problematic or distressing
and sees absolutely no need for any change in lifestyle.  He denies
overworking although he admits readily that the sole focus of his
life has always been finding his sister and that all other
involvements or commitments have always been either an accessory to
that or only of a minorly auxillory nature.  When asked if his
relationship to Dana Scully was an accessory to finding his sister
or auxillory to the focus of his life, he frowned, troubled.  "Dana
is the single exception" he finally admitted.  "She is important in
and of herself."  Dana Scully may be the only person to have ever
bridged the gap of intimacy in his life created by his obssession. 
He vehemently denies any sexual relationship with his partner and
I see no reason to doubt him.  At this point my evidence is not
strong enough to fully substantiate this claim, but I believe that
Dana Scully may be a surrogate little sister who at least partially
fills the void created by the disappearance of his sister.

When the issue of Agent Mulder's well-known belief in the existence
of extra-terrestrials and in paranormal phenomenon was discussed,
any proclivitity to trust me was lost.  He behaved in a bitter
manner, answering my questions with short, acidic comments designed
to rebuff the questioner as well as call into play his reputation
as someone with delusional ideation.  

If one accepts that Agent Mulder's convictions are merely a belief
system with the same validity as any belief system that accepts the
possibility of supernatural occurrences, Agent Mulder does not
suffer from any delusions or psychotic features.  Agent Mulder's
reactions to questioning about this issue are entirely predictable
and understandable, given the ridicule, derision, scorn, and
humiliation he has undergone from within and without the Bureau for
holding his belief system.


RECOMMENDATIONS     
>From my interview of Agent Mulder it seems relatively clear that
Agent Mulder is not at risk to incur any other self-injuries. 
However, there are areas of definite concern that must be
acknowledged.  Intensive long-term therapy is crucial.  With this
in mind I make the following recommendations:

1.  Agent Mulder should be placed under the care of a psychiatrist
for chemotherapy.  While I am not qualified to make decisions
concerning this treatment, I recommend an anti-depressant to
alleviate both his moodiness and his symptoms of PTSD as well as
low doses of an anti-anxiety agent.

2.  As his scheduling permits, Agent Mulder should see a therapist
between one and two times a week.  The focus of therapy should be
his low self-esteem, his obsessive behavior, his guilt feelings,
and his inability to trust, as well as other issues as they become
revealed throughout the course of intervention.  

3.  Agent Mulder would benefit most from a therapeutic environment
that includes his partner Dana Scully in as active a role as
she is willing to take and Agent Mulder will accept her taking.

4.  I find nothing to indicate that Agent Mulder is unable to
perform adequately as a Special Agent.  There is no need for
psychiatric leave or any modifications other than allowing him time
for therapeutic sessions.
 
SUMMARY
Agent Mulder was referred following an incident involving self-
destructive behavior.  He was appropriately dressed for his
position in the FBI.  The findings indicate the Fox Mulder suffers
from delayed onset, chronic Post Traumatic Stress Disorder relating
to his sister's abduction with the specific symptoms of: survivor
guilt, fear of intimacy, general alienation, and obsessive behavior
concerning any situations bearing a resemblance to the original
traumatic situation.  In addition, because of his unpopular belief
orientation, Agent Mulder suffers from low self-esteem and exhibits
defensive behavior.  It is recommended that Agent Mulder receive
chemotherapy and extensive behavioral and cognitive therapy,
preferably with his partner's involvement.










Author's Note:  I relied extensively on a friend to write this, so
many, many thanks and acknowledgments are due Ginni Leiu Russell. 
She made me put the following disclaimers in this note:


1.  When Emmaline, my assessor, refers to "chemotherapy" she is
referring to "chemical therapy,"  i.e. drugs. I know most of you
know that, but Ginni was concerned for those who do not know the
jargon and have only heard of chemotherapy as it relates to people
suffering from leukemia.  

2.  MMPI is Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory.  MMPI-2 is
a second version of the test.  Both are still widely used. 

3. WAIS-R is the Weschler Adult Intelligence Scale-Revised.  
   SB:FE is the Stanford-Binet (another intelligence test): Fourth 
                Edition.
   WMS-R is the Weschler Memory Scale-Revised.  
   And yeah, the scores I gave Mulder pretty much take him off the
scale.  (The scoring on the two intelligence tests is not the same
and as much as a five point difference in scores from different
administrations of the same test is not unheard of.  I varied 7
points from my highest score to my lowest on the SB.)

4.  Different therapists use different assessment forms and
different assessment forms are required by different groups.  I did
mine this way because it worked out the best to describe Mulder. 

5.  I do not have a PhD.  I do not even have my MA.  Any errors in
this are my own.  
6.  If you don't agree with Emmaline--well, she only saw the man
for an hour long interview that was supposed to go ninety minutes. 
7.  There was a problem Ginni and I ran into in the confidentiality
issue.  Normally an assessor would not call Scully by name.  I
think this case is acceptable because Scully initiated the
evaluation process and admitted a personal relationship in her
request, so any one reading this form would probably also have
access to the request and order, and due to that, it was entirely
appropriate to use her name in the Reason for Referral section of
the case.  Having used it there, it would have been silly to call
her "his partner" throughout the Findings section.  If I'm wrong,
please tell me.  I know I need to bone up on that.  Majorly.  

  
8.  *I* added this one.  Thanks for reading it Jenny!

9.  One more bread and butter note--to everyone who has encouraged 
    me in my writings I thank you abundantly!  


===================================================================

From: amperage@aol.com (Amperage)
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: Therapy (2 of 6)
Date: 25 Apr 1995 22:44:58 -0400


All the usual disclaimers against lawsuit.  This one has some
disturbing scenes w/Mulder and a lot of foul language.  No sex.

Therapy
by Amperage@AOL.com
 
     "Hi."  Emmaline Harris looked up from a mound of paperwork as
Dana Scully came in.  The dark haired woman pushed closed the file
on top, put down her pencil, rifled through another stack of files
on the corner of her desk.  "Just have a seat wherever you like." 
She indicated the comfortable seating arrangment, and pulled out a
file.  
     Scully sat on a wing chair, moving a child's doll.  Emm waited
a moment, Scully knew she was putting her shoes back on. Emm got up
and took a seat in the wing chair opposite Scully's  "Okay.  Thank
you for coming in."
     "Does Mulder know I'm here?"
     "No."  Emm replied.  "And we both know he signed papers
stating that it was okay for us talk without him, so it's legal and
we're not going behind his back."
     "I still feel. . ."  Scully gazed down at the therapist.  
     "I know."  Emm smiled briefly, glanced around the room at the
toys.  "You know, Mulder's one of my few adult patients."
     "Yeah.  I've been kind of curious why you grabbed the case." 
     "Well, I didn't grab it.  Mulder asked me if I could get it. 
I still do some consulting for ya'll and no one in psych services
was eager to get him on their couch."
     "But you were."
     "Yeah.  I think it was a good thing too."  Em stared from
behind her bifocals.  "Mulder needed someone who could help him
without judgement.  And he needed someone who's done a lot of work
in PTSD, False Memory Syndrome, and other related fields." She
shrugged.  "I fit the bill.  Me and my dolls and and my behavioral
contracts and my abused kids.  Dr. Scully, how much psych training
do you have?"
     "Minimal.  I'm a pathologist."
     Emm nodded.  "Okay.  You do know that Mulder's problems aren't
going to go away with a few months of therapy and some drugs."
     "Mulder's diagnosis is Chronic PTSD.  That means it's been
with him a long time."  Scully replied.  "And I know Mulder.  It's
not going away.  He's based his whole life on his obsession."
     Emmaline nodded.  "How much does that scare you?"
     "A lot."
     "Yeah.  It does me too."  Emm sat silently a moment.  "Well,
so far, a few things that might surprise you.  Fox Mulder would
have problems even if his sister hadn't dissappeared.  He was
beaten since early childhood."
     Scully stared at Em.  "I don't. . .I'd always assumed. . ."
     "I decided to try some regression hypnosis, on a guess."  Emm
nodded towards her desk.  "Just poking around.  You know what
behave-cog things I've got Mulder doing."
     "Yeah.  The contracts I have to sign."
     Em nodded.  "Mulder was severely abused as a small child.  He
would go into trance states every time his father. . .brutalized
him.  That's probably why he was able to repress the incident with
his sister so well, he had practice."
     "What. . .kind of abuse?"  The word "brutalized" had shaken
Scully.
     "Mostly physical, some other stuff, but mostly physical.  He'd
do something stupid--like a little kid, in other words--and upset
his father.  Mulder can't talk about it very much. I've gotten just
enough out of him to know that he was abused.  Broken bones mostly,
but a few burns, a few times the beltings got completely out of
hands.  I got him back to five and I tried like hell to get him to
remove himself emotionally, but. . ."  Emm shook her head.  "He
couldn't tell me anything and when I brought him up I sat with him
about forty minutes, just holding him.  He didn't cry.  He just. .
.sat there.  This is one kid that didn't need to lose his sister
and get blamed for it."  She sighed, tossed her shoulder length bob
back.  
     "What happened?"
     "His sister was born.  The abuse slacked off.  I don't know
how or why.  I think that Samantha was the fair-haired child of the
family.  Mulder wasn't as important.  Which was good, because then
he didn't get beat on as often.  After his sister dissappeared the
abuse escalated. . .I want Mulder to tell you about that himself.
. .he remembers most of it.  He won't talk specifically, but there
were more beltings, Dad got really mean with the belt then.  A good
many cracks to the head--I get the impression he's lucky there
wasn't any nuerological damage.  There were less broken bones, but
his bones weren't as fragile then.  I know of one truely
memorable encounter with a baseball bat."  Emm shook her head
disgusted.  "He handled your dissappearance better than anyone's
given him credit for, you know.  He didn't kill himself or even
think about it.  That's better than what I would have expected."
     Scully stared quietly at Emm.  "Okay.  So what now?"  She
finally asked.
     "So, now, I continue with therapy.  Knowing about the abuse
explains some of why Mulder's so self-critical."
     "Some?"
     "Well, Mulder knows his behavior is obsessive.  He revels in
it.  But he also knows that obsessive behavior is maladaptive." 
Emm got up, went to her closet.  "He knows that he's thrown away
his reputation and his possibilities for advancement with the X-
files.  Dealing with the scorn of everyone doesn't help him at all.
But, the fact that he got so interested in the X-files when he was
shooting so far, so fast is also revealing--he probably couldn't
handle success.  He probably feels more comfortable being the butt
of everyone's jokes."  
     She opened up the white-washed chifforobe, poked around
through games and Barbies and Power Rangers, knelt, dug through
some costume outfits.  "I do a lot of drawings with my children. 
It's a good safe way for them to express things their parents may
have told them never to talk about.  She pulled out a pad of paper.
"I ran a big risk and got really, really lucky.  I asked Mulder to
do some drawing for me.  He could have been upset that I was asking
a grown-up to do a child's therapy method.  He could have played
head games with me.  I think, because of you, that *this* time,
Mulder wants to resolve some of his problems.
     She flipped through a couple of pages of art paper.  "So last
session, Mulder and I sat on the floor like two five year olds and
we both drew with crayons.
     Emm laid the pad on her coffee table.   "We did the old draw-a
person test first.  Mulder drew this."  
     Scully considered the drawing.  A small, simple sketch, a few
lines to suggest a face.  "That's not the Draw-a-person."
     "That's what Mulder gave me.  It's not you and it's not his
sister, but from the photos. . ."
     "I know.  Am I replacement for Samantha?"
     "I don't think so.  But I do think you're like a little
sister.  Mulder probably decided to draw a girl."
     Emm flipped to the next page.  A nice little overview of a
room, with black streaks and lines over it.  "I asked Mulder to
draw a his room when he was four.  He did the nice little
architextural drawing, then went over it with the black marks and
told me this was stupid.  He said he knew I was probably going to
use this to say all kinds of things, but all that it meant was that
he thought this was stupid."
     Scully frowned.
     "Last ditch efforts to protect the known."  Emm replied. 
"People aren't always logical when they're defending the status-quo
their mind has always known."
     "What do you see?"  Scully asked, curiously.
     "I see a lot of rage."  Emm was quiet in this remark.  "He was
just going to leave it as a drawing.  I thought he was.  Then he
made the marks, hard.  Look at how hard they are."  She got up,
went to her desk, retrieved something. "This is what he did to the
crayon."  She told Scully, dumping the broken, smushed item onto
her coffee table.  "He knew he was telling me something with those
marks and he really wanted to leave the drawing the way it was, but
he was so mad he didn't have a choice.  His hurt took over."  She
took a deep breath.  
     "Adolescents are the most likely age group of children to get
abused--emotionally, physically, or sexually.  Unfortunately,
adolscents are the least likely to be removed from the situation,
or have any adults do anything.  They're big, we think they should
be able to help themselves.  They're annoying, maybe it was partly
their fault.  They don't want to admit it, because it makes them
vulnerable and a lot of adults don't want to worry with them
because of all the children we're backlogging.  Adolescents will
get out of the situation sooner.  
     "I think a lot of people knew that Fox Mulder was being
abused as an adolescent.  I think they did absoltely nothing." 
Emm's voice was quiet in its recrimination.  "Mulder probably
thought along similar lines as the adults. . .he was almost grown,
so it wasn't abuse.  He lost his sister so he deserved it.  In a
couple of years he would be an adult, and it would be over.  It's
embarrassing admitting that your dad still spanks you. . ." Em
trailed.  "He understands that the abuse he suffered as a child
that none of that was his fault.  But the abuse from adolescence.
. ."  She spread her hands.  "I don't know."  She flipped over a
page.  "I decided just to do something fun.  I asked him to draw a
field or something. . ."
     It was a winter field, very quiet, half-done.  
     "Did you run out of time?"  Scully asked.
     "No.  Mulder stopped drawing."  Emm looked at Scully.  "He
stopped drawing and he just sat there, quietly, holding onto a grey
crayon.  I don't know what it means.  I do know that there's a lot
going on inside him that he's not talking about."  She shrugged. 
"So.  We're going to start some real therapy in the next few weeks,
some stuff to change behaviors.  He's not going to like it and
neither will you after a while."
     "What kinds of things?"
     "More contracts.  More modelling and reinforced practice."
     Scully nodded.  


===================================================================

From: amperage@aol.com (Amperage)
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: Therapy (3 of 6)
Date: 25 Apr 1995 22:45:01 -0400

All usual disclaimers indicating that certain characters contained
in this text were created and are copyrighted by Chris Carter.

Therapy
by Amperage@AOL.com
     "Hi."  Emm smiled as she came out into the crowded waiting
room.  Mulder was the only adult patient waiting.  A rotund woman
sitting next to him, one whose two children played on the floor
with VR Troopers toys, frowned at him as he picked his way across
the toy-filled space space.  He tried to ignore the woman's
reaction, followed Emm down the hallway.  "I tell myself you're a
nationally recognized expert on memory and the problems associated
with it."  Mulder said.  "But every time I come here I feel like
I'm in a pediatrician's office."
     Emm shrugged; it was a true enough statement.  She opened the
door to her office, let them both take seats. "How are you doing?"
     "I'm okay.  Scully said you showed her the drawings."
     "Guilty as charged."
     "Why?"
     "You didn't bullshit me.  You showed me what was going on in
your mind and it was the farthest in you've let me come, really."
     Mulder took a deep breath, looked at Em.  "All right.  That's
fair."
     "I don't think it's intentional.  I think you come into this
room with every intention of working hard."
     "Scully would kill me if I didn't."  Mulder replied. "I did
everything I was supposed to in my contracts."
     Emm nodded.  "If you have to break them, it's okay.  It just
shows me that's one area we have to work on and you have to
practice more."
     Mulder sighed.
     "Sorry."  Emm apologized.  "You're not a child or an idiot. 
You work with seven year olds all day, sometimes you get stuck in
that type of phrasing."
     "Thank you."  Mulder looked at the coffee table, considered a
rag doll in its white pinafore and calico dress.  Brown yarn hair
and bright painted eyes.   
     "Who made it?"  He asked.
     Emm considered the doll.  "A lady in my neighborhood.  She
makes all my rag dolls."
     Mulder nodded.  
     "I give them away mostly." Emm said softly.  "I get kids in
here who don't know how to trust anyone.  The doll--they can trust
a doll.  It won't yell or scream or hurt them or turn away when
someone else is hurting them."  She stopped herself.  "I'm sorry."
     Mulder considered Em with veiled eyes, then suddenly relaxed. 
"That wasn't deliberate, was it?"
     Emm nodded.  "No.  I give them away for the reason I told you.
The doll's out because I'm messy.  I said what I said because it's
important to me, with the kids I work with, to let them have
something safe.  I didn't think about how it might effect you." 
She sighed, took the doll in her hands.  "If someone had given you
a little bunny farmer boy when you were four or five, what would
you have done?"
     Mulder frowned.  "Loved on it until my father tore it up
because it was a sissy fag thing to do."
     "If your father couldn't have taken it away?"
     Mulder thought a long time.  "I would have loved on it and put
it in a far corner of my room at night."
     "Things get worse at night?"
     He nodded.  "Even things you can trust in the daytime. . .you
can't trust at night."
     Emm let this sink into her thoughts a moment.  "Not even a
doll?"
     Mulder shrugged. 
     "Is that a no, a yes, or an I don't know?"  
     "It's a No."  Mulder said sharply.  
     Emm stared at the rag doll in her lap.  "Can you trust
anything at night now?"
     Mulder frowned.  "Yeah."
     "But when you're lying there in the dark, trying to sleep,
what are you thinking?"
     "I don't.  Not voluntarily."
     "How do you sleep most of the time?"
     "On my couch.  Mostly I leave the t.v. on.  The bed's for when
I have company."
     "What about when you're on a case and in a hotel?"
     "I leave the t.v. on."  His voice sounded edgy.  A voice that
told her there were a lot of things he would change to make the
people around him happy, a lot of things he would do, but turning
out all the lights and lying in his bed, alone in his apartment?
That was completely out of the question.  
     "Tell me all the reasons why you do this?"
     Mulder frowned.  "I have bad nightmares.  It's better when I
wake up, if there's something on or if I'm at least not in bed." He
paused.  "I don't sleep very much.  I watch t.v. all night
sometimes."  That was two.  "I don't like thinking about being
alone at night." That was three.

     "Because Sam dissappeared at night."
     "Mhm."  
     Emm nodded, grabbed Mulder's file off the coffee table, opened
it, took a couple of rapid notes.  "What do you dream about?"
     "Samantha."
     "Is there one specific dream or several or do they change?"
     "All three."  Mulder replied.   "I dream about her abduction,
and sometimes I flashback in that dream."
     "Are the details straight or do they change?"
     "They change.  But the details from my hypnosis changed too."
     "That's common, you know that."
     Mulder nodded.  "I've tried to piece it together as closely as
I can.  And I don't know. . .Sometimes we're playing Stratego and
watching Watergate hearings.  Sometimes she's curled up on my bed. 
Sometimes I've gone into her room because she had a nightmare. 
Sometimes I make it to the top of the wardrobe for Daddy's gun. 
Sometimes I get to the gun only after she's gone."
     "What do you think happened?"
     Mulder frowned.  "I don't know.  But the one unvariable
constant in all this is that the Aliens came and took her and I saw
it.  I tried to fight, but I wasn't strong enough.  I wasn't. .
.fast enough or anything.  I just couldn't move.  I was. . .I
couldn't move.  They wouldn't let me move."  
     He waited for the invariable response.  If they couldn't let
you move, how was it your fault?   It would put Mulder back where
he knew his footing.  He already had a script for that
conversation.  Already knew what to say. 
     But Emmaline Harris, PhD, frequent expert witness in court,
stared at him.  She knew several things and the first thing was
that to respond logically wouldn't work.  She would be fighting
belts and blows and cuffs upside the head.  She would be fighting
pain and terror and the desire of a 12 year old to say anything to
make his father stop hurting him.  She would also fall into
comfortable patterns for which Mulder already had a defense, they
would accomplish nothing except put Mulder into control and Emm out
of control.
     "When you told your father that, what did he say?"  She asked.
     "I didn't remember anything."  Mulder replied.  
     "But when he asked why you didn't do anything, what did you
say?"
     "I said I didn't know.  I didn't remember."
     "And then he hit you?"
     Mulder nodded, caught himself.  
     "When would it stop, when he hit you?"
     "When he was tired."
     "Any time else?"
     "If I said it was my fault he would get mad, but I knew it
would end, I knew he wouldn't just keep on hurting me.  And it was
true."
     "Do you think you deserved the beatings?"
     Mulder shook his head.  Of course not.
     "But it was true that it was your fault?"
     "I was her big brother, I was supposed to protect her."
     "So you did something wrong?"
     "I. . ." He was aware of the feeling in his stomach, the
tightness in his chest.
     "So how was it your fault?  What made it your fault?" Emm
pressed.  She wasn't about to let him back down off this one.  
     Mulder was staring glittery-eyed at the wing chair across from
him.  His right arm was drawn over his torso, his fingers were
clutching and unclutching the material of his jacket sleeve.  
     "What did you do that made it your fault?"  Emm asked yet
again. 
     Mulder was taking painful shallow breaths now.  He couldn't
trust himself to speak and Emm suspected he was being innundated
with memories, with words, with emotions.  He was jerking at the
material of his jacket now, and Emm wasn't at all sure Mulder knew
that he was even doing it.  His eyes were unfocused, looking
straight ahead.
    "Mulder.  I need you to tell me what you're thinking.  I need
to know.  You can tell me.  It's all right.  It's safe to tell
here.  It's safe, no matter what it is.  It's okay.  Tell me." 
     Her words released a torrent from inside him.  "They said she
was coming back. They said she was coming back!"  He exploded,
shouting, taking no notice of Emm's sudden flinching. "They said
they wouldn't hurt her and that they would bring her back!  And I
let them take her!  I let them do that to her!  I let them take my
sister!"  
     He paused, hands clutching into hard tight fists.  Tears began
to trickle down the sides of the sides of his face.  "Doesn't
anyone understand?  Nobody understands it, ever.  They say they do.
. .but.  I let my sister be abducted and. . ."
     Mulder trailed, then decided he didn't care right now what the
consequences would be, what anyone would say.  "I wish he hadn't
beaten me, but it was my fault.  If I hadn't lost her he wouldn't
have beaten me.  And if I'd done something she wouldn't have been
gone and Dad mostly stopped hurting me after Sam was born.  We were
a family."  A sob, painful and drawn out, burst through.  "It was
my fault he beat me like that: I lost Sam."
     Emm swallowed, felt her gut turn and twist.  Unsolicited, he
had said the one thing she feared he thought, the one thing that
she had hoped with all her being wasn't true, the thing that made
her job and Mulder's job so much harder, so much more difficult. 
  

     It took some time, but he stopped crying eventually.  Emm got
him a bottle of Evian from the fridge in the practice's workroom. 
Mulder wiped his eyes with a cool washcloth she'd also liberated,
drank the water.  She didn't do much work with adults, because if
you got to a case like this and the child had become an adult it
was so much harder.  Children you could teach to think differently,
could reshape their patterns.  Adults, especially well-educated,
pleasant, successful adults like Fox Mulder, were the pits.  Even
after they knew what was wrong, it was hard for them to change: the
patterns, their ways of dealing, were all intertwined.   Emm's
introduction of new ways of dealing was hard for them, because
sometimes, at first, the new ways didn't get the results the old
ways did.  The old ways worked very well.  The new way was hard,
hard, hard.
     Mulder was sitting quietly on the couch; he looked better, but
not good.  Emm took a deep breath, tried to decide where to go. 
She wasn't going to change his belief that he had to find his
sister.  She wasn't going to crack that obsession, get over it now
and move on or their therapy sessions would become nothing but tug
of wars.  "Was your father right for beating you?"  She asked
quietly, hoping for the answer she expected, not sure what she was
going to do if he answered yes.
     "No."  It was a standard, practiced response.  The one he had
learned as an adult, not the one he had learned as a child.
     "Why not?"
     "It's not. . .right to treat a child that way."
     "Before Dr. Verber, what did you think about the abuse?"
     Mulder shrugged.  "I remembered that it was my fault."
     Emm nodded, it wasn't an answer, but it was enough.  "What did
remembering do?"
     "I. . .understood what had gone on.  I had somewhere to
start."
     "That's not what Verber wanted you to see."
     "It's what was important to me."
     "You left therapy with him.  Cut and run on a friend.  Why?"
     Mulder smiled.  "He. . .I told him I just wanted to find out
what happened to her.  He knew that from the start."
     Emm decided she was beating a dead horse.  Time to move on. 
She shifted in her chair, slid her flats off, tucked her feet under
her. "Beating a child is never justified, is it?"  She asked in a
careful, neutral tone. 
     "No."  Mulder replied without affect,  he swallowed.  "But
even things that aren't justified. . . there are reasons why they
happen."
     Emm frowned, decided to see if she could bring some focus to
what he was saying.  Okay.  FBI.   "All those serial killers you
profiled.  You know that if someone does this or does that it means
that they're a certain age or that this happened to them as a child
or that happened to them.  Those are reasons.  But you still
testified against them, still tried to bring them down.  Because
you knew they were evil."
     Mulder frowned, stared hard at Emm.
     "So I don't get it."  Emm frowned back.  "It sounds from your
work that you don't think that a reason is an excuse."
     A deep breath, Mulder knew exactly where this was going.
"But I could have avoided it."  He offered up.
     "How?"
     Mulder opened his mouth, closed it.
     "Go ahead.  Say it."  Emm told him.  Mulder shook his head.
     Emm took a deep breath. began.  "`Em, if I hadn't lost my
sister Dad wouldn't have beaten me.  It was my fault I lost my
sister.  Ergo, it was my fault my dad beat me.  I was guilty as
charged, even if the sentence was too severe.'"  She finished. 
"Did I miss anything?"  
     Mulder took a deep exasperated breath, frowned at Em.  
     "It wasn't like that."  He muttered through clenched teeth.
     "Okay. What was it like?"
     They stared at each other.  
     Em gave in first.  "Okay.  Let's work out this week's
contract.  Then we'll do something else."
     Mulder gave a short nod.  

     The contract was simply a list of things Mulder had to do each
week.  Behaviors he had to engage in.  Last week they were all
small things.  Make up a list of positive-self statements and let
Scully read it.  If she thought the list wasn't good enough he had
to redo it.  Emm noted, flipping through the small notebook she'd
given Mulder, that he'd had to redo this week's list three times
before Scully signed it.  
     "Okay.  This week." Emm sat on the floor, using the coffee
table as a desk.  "I want you to write a page explaining why your
father shouldn't have beaten you."  She wrote down the reasons and
explanations for this paragraph.
     "And Scully has to sign it."  Mulder moaned, sliding from the
couch to the floor across from her.
     "And Scully has to sign it."  Emm agreed.  "Now you have your
choice, you can rewrite this list you made of self statements or
you can say it aloud to Scully.  I don't care which."
     "Once?"
     "No.  Four times, spread out over the next week--not just four
times fast right before you come to my office."
     "This is the most embarrassing thing I've ever done.  Em, I'm
not a child."
     "I know."  Em stared at Mulder.  "I help them write their
statements and give them stickers.  You want a sticker?"
     Mulder smiled briefly.  "Only if they feature the Barbi
Twins."
     "Sorry, Got some hot ones of the babes from Power Rangers
though."
     "I don't want to do this."
     "Don't want to or won't?"  Em asked.
     Mulder took a deep breath.  "Em please.  It's. .
.embarrassing.  And degrading."
     "To whom?  Scully doesn't think it's degrading to you."
     "I'm not. . .a victim.  I don't want her thinking of me as a
victim."
     Emm closed her eyes, opened them, took a deep breath. 
"Mulder, Scully had two big burly sheriff's deputies pinning you
down because you hit your hand against a stone fireplace hard
enough to break a finger and cause severe lacerations.  She didn't
stop trusting you or stop thinking of you as her friend then. 
That's why you're here. If she can deal with that and deal with it
very well too, I might add, then what makes you think she's going
to start pitying you now?"
     Mulder swallowed.   
     "Scully sees a very close friend, her closest friend, with a
problem and part of the problem is his self-image.  She doesn't
feel sorry for you."  Emm swallowed.  "Okay.  I want you to talk to
Scully about your embarrasment this week."  She wrote something in
the book.  "You've got to write a page explaining why you're scared
and why you don't want to do the self-statements. Scully's got to
write a page explaining what she thinks about your being in
therapy."  Emm wrote this down in her quick handwriting.  "I'll
call Scully and we'll talk about the self-statements."
     Mulder gave an exasperated sigh.  "I'll do it, damn it.  Don't
call Scully."
     Emm frowned.  "Why not?"
     "I already know what she'll say and I'll wind up doing the
damn things."  He grumbled.

     

     When the book was done, Mulder put it back into his trenchcoat
and Emm got out her cards.  They played poker for the rest of their
ninety minute session.  Mulder won, as usual.


===================================================================

From: amperage@aol.com (Amperage)
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: Therapy (4 of 6)
Date: 25 Apr 1995 22:45:00 -0400

Usual Disclaimers.

Therapy
by Amperage@AOL.com

     "Dr. Harris?"  The voice was cool, professional.  Emm had
decided several months ago that she did not like the new office
manager.  The other counselors thought she was wonderful--
efficient, quick, good at getting things done.  But the woman was.
. .well, she and Emm had sized each other up immediatly.  Emm was
the kind of person who hadn't gotten invited to the prom and this
woman was the kind of person who had made fun of women like Emm in
high school for not getting invited to the prom. 
     It was silly.  Emm was a professional.  She had boyfriends
when she wanted them, watched her figure and had a hair
dresser/make-up artist named Claude who made her look pretty.  And
this woman was over 40, wore entirely too much make up and made
less than one fifth of Emm's salary.  Still.  Emm knew enough to
know that learned responses are hard to break.  To their credit,
most of the other partners knew Emm's feelings and made sure one of
the other office girls took care of Emm's appointments, Emm's
reports, Emm's needs.  
     "Yes May."  Emm responded, thumb on the phone's intercom
button.
     "There's a Dr. Scully on the line.  I tried to get her to take
a message, but. . ."
     Emm sighed, rubbed the bridge of her eye.  "I thought I said
the Dr. Scully and Dr. Mulder were on my list of calls to put
through unless I'm in session."
     "Well, they were, but now that you've got Dr. Mulder in
therapy."  Her voice was slightly scandalized.  Oh fuck off, 
Emm thought, just because a collegue needs to go into therapy, it
doesn't nessisarily follow that he's unstable and . . ."What line?"
Emm replied, looking at the row of amber lights.
     "Line 5."  May replied.
     "Thanks."  Emm picked up the handset and depressed the clear
button for line five.  "Scully?"
     "Emm.  God, what a bitch."
     Emm surprised herself by laughing.  "What, didn't you go to
the prom either.?
     "One of my brother's friends squired me,"  she heard Scully
say with a chuckle.  "Listen.  We're in Minnesota right now."
     "Yeah.  Mulder called up and rescheduled, so I knew you
weren't underfoot.  What's wrong?"
     "I'm being overprotective but. . ."  Emm heard Scully sigh. 
"How good is this for him?  I mean we're on a UFO abduction case
right now."
     "Well he's probably playingm out the classic symptoms of
someone with PTSD, if that's what you wanted to hear."  Emm
replied.  "What's going on?"
     "A little girl got mad at her friends and ran out of a slumber
party, decided to walk back home."
     "Wonderful."
     "Wait.  There's more.  The mother of the little girl hosting
the party finds out a few minutes after the other little girl
leaves.  Decides it isn't safe for a little girl to be out on the
road at three in the morning. So she goes after her in the minivan.
She says she saw the little girl and then there was a bright
light."
     "And that's all she remembers, no doubt."
     "Exactly."  
     "How's Mulder doing?"
     "He's doing his usual obsessive thing.  This has always scared
me, but this is the first time I've ever known there was someone I
could talk to."  Emm heard the desperation in Scully's voice.  "He
goes off into his own little world on cases like this.  The
abductee is the only thing that matters, his vision narrows.  He
pisses everyone off."
     "Including you?"
     "No.  Generally I don't get the full Mulder treatment.  He
doesn't see me as impeding his search."  
     It sounded like Scully could use some time just for
supportive therapy to vent her fears, her anger.  Emm frowned.  
     "If I called him, could I help?"
     "No.  I just. . .wanted someone to talk to.  Fuck, Emm, he's
going to go out on that limb someday and it's going to break off
with him on it."
     Now what did Scully mean by that?  Emm puzzled for a moment. 
"I don't get it."  She said, doing a very credible imitation of
the girl on the Showtime commercial.
     She heard Scully's snort of laughter.  "I. . .Mulder's focus
is so limited. . ."
     "He won't go crazy from this.  I promise."
     "Intellectually I knew that."  She heard Scully's sigh.  "I
think I needed to hear it from you."
     "Well, there it is.  He's just going to be a pain in the butt
to live with and he'll need some major support if the little girl
isn't found, but this won't send him around the bend unless he does
a depression thing, which I doubt.  Has he done his contract work?"
     "Bitching and moaning the whole time.  I didn't know."  
     "That Mulder blames himself for the beatings?"
     "Yes."  Scully's voice was barely more than a breath.  
     "It's fairly common in abuse victims."  Emm replied.  "But
that doesn't make it any less. . ."  She struggled for the right
words.  ". . .easy to accept."
     "Yeah."  Scully paused.  "Why does he think that I'm going to
feel sorry for him?"
     "Because he doesn't want you to.  It's a big issue with
Mulder.  He's got to be the big brother.  Don't underplay this
Dana.  Intellectually he's your partner, but at some level, he's
your big brother."
     She heard an exasperated sigh.  "Thanks Emm."
     "No problem.  Listen, if you need anything, any hour, call the
office.  If you give the answering service Mulder's social security
number they'll find me--home, cellular or pager, and if they can't
find me they'll take a message, knowing that I'll check with them
before I check anything else.  If you want my numbers I'll give 'em
to you, but it's cheaper for you if you just call them.  Hell,
that's what I pay 'em for."
     "Thanks."
     "I'm glad to help.  He's trying really hard."
     "I know.  I'm proud of him."  The phone clicked.  Emm sat
handset in her palm, smiling for just a moment.


===================================================================

From: amperage@aol.com (Amperage)
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: Therapy 5 of 6
Date: 25 Apr 1995 22:45:10 -0400

Usual Disclaimers

Therapy
by Amperage@AOL.com


     There were no children when Mulder stepped into the waiting
room late Thursday evening.  A young woman was putting toys away. 
Mulder picked up a couple of Dr. Seuss books for her.  "You're Dr.
Mulder?"  The girl said when he handed the books to her.  
     "Yeah."
     "Dr. Harris is back in her office.  If you want me to, I'll
show you where."
     "I can find it."  He promised.
     The girl smiled gratefully. "Once I get this put up, I go
home."
     Mulder smiled back.


     Em was at her desk, going over an incredibly thick file.  When
Mulder opened her door, she looked up.  
     "I'm sorry Scully made such a fuss."  He apologized.  "I could
have waited until regular hours."
     Emm flashed him a smile.  "She's worried about you."
     Mulder made a small grimmace.  "She's overprotective."
     "Really?  She seems to feel that *you're* overprotective."
     A slight smile this time.  "Well, you know, kill your partner
and its hard to find another. . .if I lose Scully, no one will want
to work with me.  If I go crazy, no one will want to work with
*her*."  He took a seat on the sofa, where he was comfortable.  Emm
decided to fuck her shoes, her feet hurt, and walked barefoot to
her usual spot in the armchair.
     "When your partner called me this afternoon, she sounded
pretty worried.  What happened?"
     Mulder frowned.  "Nothing really.  We didn't find the little
girl."
     "That must be really hard.  How old was she?"
     "Nine."  Mulder swallowed reflexively.
     "What do you think happened to her?"
     "I don't. . .know.  We have no specific evidence for alien
abduction.  But we have no other specific evidence.  She was
walking home and then . . ."
     "There's usually some UFO activity before an abduction."
     "There wasn't with my sister."  Mulder looked up.  
     Emm stared at him levelly.  "There wasn't?"
     "No."  He replied in a voice that was extremely cool and
guarded.  "There was some evidence in this case.  Not a lot, but a
little."
     "Any evidence of anything else?"
     "No."  Mulder spread his hands as though letting something
through them.  "Nothing.  She's gone."  He looked up from his hands
suddenly looking very tired, very fragile.  "She was the oldest. 
She has a little sister who's three, named Tameris.  Tam's never
going to know her big sister, except as a ghost that haunts the
memories of her parents."
     "You sound upset."
     "There's a little girl who's never going to come home."
     "What was the little girl's name?"
     "Elizabeth.  Everyone called her Beth."
     "What did she look like?"
     "She had long blonde hair and green eyes.  She was in 4th
grade accelerated program. . ." Mulder trailed.  "I wanted to find
her so bad.  I remembered, this time, to make sure I looked at
every angle so there wouldn't be any more Anna-Lisas.  It didn't
matter.  I didn't find her.  There was this. . .look in the
parents' faces when I told them we were leaving.  I just wanted to.
. ." He trailed.  "It's not fair.  It's not fucking fair!  They,
whatever, whoever they are, they come in and they take and they lie
and they *don't care* what it feels like for the rest of us."  He
sat, brooding.  Emm decided against pushing.  
     "If I hear this New Age crap any more I think I'm going to
scream.  `The aliens are here to show us the way to
enlightenment'." He mimicked, wrapping his arms around his body,
staring at a far point.  "I don't know why they're here, but they
kidnap children.  That's not enlightened, it's. . .horrific."
     "Why do you think they take children?"
     Mulder shook his head.  "I don't. . .expiraments."  He said
softly.  "All the abductees talk of expiraments.  I guess sometimes
the children don't make it, or they're in long term projects so
they don't return them.  My sister is alive."
     Emm frowned.  She hadn't suspected that Mulder engaged in
magical thinking.  Oh shit.  "How do you know that?"  She asked
carefully.
     Mulder looked up, smiled ironically.  "No.  Don't worry, I'm
not. . .in the opening stages of a delusion.  I was nearly killed
by. . ."  He shrugged.  "I guess the term `Alien mercenary' fits
the bill, pretty much.  But it didn't kill me and it told me, as a
pacifier, that my sister was still alive. I assume he. . .it. .
.was telling the truth.  It had no reason to lie."
     Emm nodded, planning to check the story with Scully, for the
moment accepting Mulder's version.  "Right now our focus is going
to be changing the usual pattern you've got for dealing with the
days after a case like this."  She got up, found some blank paper,
a good pen.  "All right.  You give me your notebook to go through
and you right down what your schedule will be for the next few
days."
     "God, I love Cognitive-Behavorial therapy."
     "It beats ECT."  Emm surprised herself by saying.  Mulder
grinned, shook his head, dug out the little notebook.


     It was common in the early 70's for parents to
spank.  Teachers had paddles and used them liberally. 
Everyone thought that spanking and paddling and belting
was acceptable practice.  When Samantha was alive I got
belted once or twice a month, but it was not horrific. 
Six or seven licks in the garage and it was over.  After
Samantha disappeared, things changed.  
     I walked home from school, or I rode my bike.  I was
ahead two grades from where my age dictated I should have
been, but I had friends: I was tall and mature for my
age, so it never seemed to make much difference.  We
would joke around, invite each other over to our
respective houses. After Sam, I did not participate in
this ritual of laughter.  To their great credit, my
friends were quiet, respectful of the odor of mourning
and fear that emenated from my home and from its
denizens.  
     I would get in promptly at 3:30 and change clothes. 
Mom was always quiet, always too gentle for the outside
world.  I believe that was why my father married her--she
must have seemed a benevolent visitor from some foreign
land who never got angry.  She stilled the turbulent
waters of his soul with the soft coolness of her gentle
spirit.  Following my sister's abduction, Mom was
quieter.  She did less.  She slept a great deal. 
Technically she was clinically depressed.  I took up the
slack for her.  I would cook supper, have it ready.  I
took care of the house, did the laundry, vacuumed.  
     If my father was not in by 6 p.m. I knew something
was wrong.  If he was not in by 7, I was vomitting, I was
curled up in a corner of my room.  I was trying to do my
homework, but my hands shook too badly.  I was trying not
to cry.  
     Mom took a heavy dose of Valium at 9 and went to her
bed.  
     I waited.  If he came in and found me in bed, he
would be enraged, so I waited.  Eventually, some time
late in the evening my father would come in.  He would
yell for me. I would come out and he would, sometimes
drunkenly, sometimes not, ask me why I had lost her.  He
would have been crying a long time.  His eyes hurt.  I
could see he hurt.  His little girl was gone and his wife
was retreating inward and his son was silent and had let
her go.  
 

Emm looked up from the carefully printed words.  Mulder was on the
floor, legs under the coffee table.  He was carefully scribing his
schedule.  She felt as though she had burst through  the surface of
a murky, algae ridden lake, and was taking painful bursts of
burning air.  Emm's eyes flipped back to the page before her. 

     We would talk a few minutes.  His voice was always
clear and cold.  Eventually, different ways, different
times, I would wind up being hurt.  When he was enough in
control I wouuld pull down my Levis, pull down my BVD's,
lean over the dining room table and his belt would begin
strapping me.  Each stroke felt like liquid fire.  I
would count the strokes silently.  He would ask me: why? 
Why?  Why did I let her go?  I would cry and cry and each
stroke came down and burned and hurt and exploded into me
with agony.  There are no scars on my backside.  He was
very careful about scars.  If he ever cut my flesh he
would grab me, hold me close to him for a moment and then
find some new way to hurt me.  
     When he came in and he was not in control, he would
hit me.  I would huddle into some small ball and listen
to his acquistations.  I would do whatever he said
to do.  If I did not need to go to the emergency room
when he was done, when he had exhausted his supply of
anger for the evening, I would be allowed to go to bed.
     His anger, when it was out of control, terrified me.
He could not control it.  One time I was being kicked,
over and over and over agin, in the ribs.  I was trying
to gasp through the pain, and I knew that we would be
going to the emergency room this evening, that they would
again keep me overnight.  I looked up and I saw that my
father was not present.  I was staring at a demon of
anger who had come and taken possession of Dad. 
Sometimes, now, I feel the same demon in me, and it
terrifies me.  I want to kill, I want to hurt.  I do not
care, in those moments, what is right or wrong.  I just
want to hurt something.  

Emm wasn't sure she could read much more of this.  The rage.  She'd
seen that once.  She knew Mulder very rarely expressed any rage. 
He was known for his gentleness.  Yet, he had beaten his hand
against a wall and it had taken three people to restrain him, to
contain the anger.  Skinner had said that once he nearly choked
someone.  She remembered Scully's crack.  "I don't get the Mulder
treatment."  Oh God, what had she, Emmaline Harris, gotten herself
into.  She dealt with children.  She played with dolls and had her
crayons and board games.  She went into the FBI and counselled
people who had mild symptoms of PTSD.  This man, he needed. . .she
trailed.  He needed someone he could trust someone who would not
say he was crazy for believing in UFO's.  


     I never remember thinking that the pain was
unjustified.  My friends showed me the marks on their
bottoms for losing their lunch money or forgetting to
clean up their rooms.  Their fathers had belts too.  What
was the proper punishment for losing your sister?  What
pain could atone for that sin?
     When he came in on time, we would sit at the dinner
table, my father and I.  My mother excused herself
quickly, she did not want to see, to acknowledge.  He
would question me.  Did I remember anything today?  Had
anything of my memories come back?  Did I remember what
we had been doing?  How had I lost her?  Whose fault was
it?  Did I remember doing anything?  The questions were
relentless, piercing.  He would ask and ask and ask. 
Occasionally an answer of mine would enrage him and his
hand would snake out and hit me upside my head.  These
cuffs were hard.  I had headaches, tinitus, and
occasional blurred vision until I was two years into my
studies at Oxford.  Sometimes, if he had cuffed me
several times, blood would come out of my ear.  I would
think to myself, good.  Good. I couldn't remember, so my
dad hit me.  
     Emmaline, you asked me to write a page on the
reasons why it was not my fault and I have written you a
page describing the beatings instead.  Do you understand
now?  In that house in Chillmark Massachusetts, our pains
fed off of each other, were intertwined.  It was not my
father's fault exclusively.


There was no scrawl at the end.  He had not shown it to Scully. 
Mulder looked up, saw her pale face.  He put the pen down.  Emm
swallowed, regained her composure.  "Why did you show me this?"
     "I can't. . .Em, I tried so hard to write what you wanted." 
He looked at the pen.  "It felt like a lie.  It was a lie.  It made
my father into a villian."
     Emm barely restrained herself from saying the first thing that
popped into her mind: Your father was a villian.  Your father was
a monster.  You did not create the monster.  She had to change
Mulder's thinking, there was no way around that.  She had to
convince him that he had had no choice, that he had been,
essentially, helpless in the situation.  All the workshops and all
the articles about empowering people.  All the lectures about how
to make abused children feel as though they were in control of
their lives.  All the BS about raising self-esteem and then the
survivor would have the stength and self-image to admit, to admit
the rage and the pain, to take control.  But Mulder had admitted it
to Emm and admitted that he believed he had deserved it.  Heart and
soul he'd believed, even as he trembled with fear, even as he
retched out his stomach, that it was his fault the family'd gone to
hell.  That he deserved every lick, every cuff to the head. If he
hadn't thought he deserved it he never would have told her.   
     He'd not admitted this much to Scully.  He'd let her read
something--she'd told Emm that it was hard for her to accept, that
somehow he'd caused the abuse.  But now.  Now.  His obsessions made
such perfect sense.  
     She considered her options carefully.  He'd laid a stick of
dynamite into her lap and she needed time to deal with the
explosion.  Somehow, she had to make him see his helplessness, his
blamelessness.  She was kicking a brick wall, but what progress
were they going to fucking make if he couldn't relearn that one
pattern?
     "Where's Scully?"  Emm asked softly.  
     "I don't want her to read that.  I wrote that for you."
     "You don't trust her?"
     Mulder frowned.  "You know I trust her."
     "But not this much?"
     He took a deep breath.  "It's not that.  Please, Emm."
     "All right."  Emm swallowed again.  "Here's what we're going
to do.  I'm giving you your notebook.  I want you to put everything
in third person.  No motivations, no leaps or conclusions. I want
you to write, in summation, the events of your sister's abduction
and the aftermath.  Pretend you're writing about someone else, not
about you.  Lay out the entire story in third person and use proper
psychological terms."
     Mulder nodded silently.  
     "Now you give me the pages of your schedule and I'll make some
adjustments.  I'm going to call Scully.  I won't tell her about
these pages, since you don't want me too.  I am asking her to come
over and we'll work out your daily schedule.  I don't want you to
have any down time."
     "I'll be fine."
     Yeah.  He'd be the same Mulder, blaming himself for not
finding her, inventing reasons.  Emm remembered reading about the
case in Oklahoma, about Mulder's problems, how he'd identified with
the killer, had "seen" things.  The therapist hadn't caught wind of
anything terrifying, although reading it when preparing for
Mulder's evaluation had sent warning signals from her inner radar. 
But the radar hadn't given her a size or a shape, just a general
definition of fear.  
     She rifled through her electronic rolodex, found Scully's home
and cellular.  
     Not at home, but accessible on the cellular.
     "Scully, this is Emm."
     "Hi.  Didn't Mulder show?"
     "He did.  I'd really like him to stay with you for a couple of
nights."  Already, Em was calming down.  He'd lived with this 20
years.  He was living with it.  He'd developed coping stratagies or
he wouldn't be here, looking like a poster child for Beefcake's
Anonymous.
     She heard the phone being moved.  "Emm, can I call you back?"
     "Umm. . ."  Emm gave out another number.  "You'll get the
answering service if you use the regular number.  I'd really like
you to come down here."
     "What's wrong?"  Suddenly the easiness was gone from Scully's
voice.  
     "Nothing.  I just think Mulder needs to feel. . .safe.  We
need to go over a schedule for his next few days."
     Scully knew she was lying.  "I'm at my Godson's house.  Let me
say my goodbyes.  I'll be there in 30 minutes."


===================================================================

From: amperage@aol.com (Amperage)
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: therapy 6 of 6

Sorry--I thought I had posted all 6, and then my online service was way
behind and. . .anyway.  Here it is.

All usual disclaimers.

Therapy
by Amperage@AOL.com
   Emm and Mulder were sitting at two different office computers,
DOOMing over the LANs system, when Scully showed up.  Scully stood
a moment behind Mulder's back, watching as he gleefully ambushed
Emm's character.  The little green character grasped its throat and
went down with a scream.  Scully looked around the office--
cluttered, messy, papers and post-its strewn everywhere.  Too many
people, too little space, Scully theorized, noting that three
different personalities had taken over a counter approximately 7
feet in length.  Mulder typed "She's here" and exited program.
"Hi."  He smiled easily.  "I'm sorry Emm interupted.  You don't
have much time with your. . ."
     "Eh. . ."  Scully dismissed.  "He's six.  It was past his
bedtime and he was was crankier than hell."  Someone padded down
the hall.  Emm.  "I made coffee."  She held up her mug.  "You want
any?"
     "Not right now.  I've just had three cups."  Scully replied,
letting herself be led into Emm's office.  There were several
papers on the coffee table, along with a daily planner.  
     Emm rifled through the papers, got out three xeroxed copies. 
"Scully, do you understand why I'm doing this?"
     "Not really. . ." Scully trailed.
     Emm looked at Mulder.  He sighed, rubbed his face.  "It's a
cognitive-behavioral technique used mostly with depressed
patients."  Mulder told his partner.  "I have to schedule my days
precisely.  The main goal is to keep the patient doing, without
long pauses or breaks--no time to sit around feeling sorry for
himself.  It also forces the patient into doing activities they may
have given up as the depression grew worse."
     "In most adults we rely on honor to make sure the schedule is
followed."  Emm added.  "I trust Mulder, but. . .I want some
backup.  This is a lot to ask of you, Dana."
     Scully frowned, shrugged.  "I don't think it's a lot."  She
said quietly.  "What am I responsible for?"
     "Okay.  We've worked out Mulder's schedule for tomorrow.  This
is flexible, but pretty much, on this paper, we've got what Mulder
needs to be doing and when he needs to be doing it.  There aren't
a lot of breaks, except in the evening when he gets to choose some
recreational activity."
     Scully flipped through the pages.  "I don't think this is a
problem.  If he doesn't keep to schedule, what do I do?"
     "You call me."  Emm replied smoothly.
     Scully nodded.  "What's going on?"  She said calmly.  "Why
don't you trust Mulder to keep to this schedule on his own?"
     "Because it's a hard thing.  He's going to need help."  Stupid
answer, but what answer could she give?  Mulder had told her he
didn't want Scully reading it and unless the time ever came when
Mulder was judged incompetent, Emm had to keep his confidences.
     Scully was staring hard at her partner.  "So it's okay to just
rely on me to be there, but not to tell me why?  This,"  she shook
the paper, "isn't supposed to make me feel sorry for you, but the
reason why is?"
     Mulder frowned, stared at his partner, closed his eyes,
swallowed clumsily. His hands were clutching at the edge of Emm's
couch, clutching and releasing, and it really made Emm glad she
hadn't invested much money in her furniture, because he was going
to rip a hole in the upholstery in a minute.  "I can't."  He
said and the voice was soft, was anguished.  "I just can't.  I
don't understand."  He told Emm.  "I'm the same person.  Why don't
I. . ." And he trailed.  He knew that Emm had her justifications. 
If you identify a paranoid schizophrenic who believes that the
President is really Beelzebub, you take immediate steps for
comittal, whether he's been running around in public with that
idea for years or not.
     "Fuck it."  The words were unexpected.  Mulder got his file
from the coffee table, found the copy of the notebook entry that
had so frigtened Emm ,and handed it to his partner.
    

     As she read it, Dana Scully's expression changed subtly. 
Her mouth tightened slightly.  Her body tensed.  When she looked
up, she was silent.  She took off her reading glasses, set the
paper down on the coffee table.  "I didn't know."  She said softly.
"God, Mulder, how could you walk around with this inside you and
not ever tell anyone?"
     Mulder stared at his partner.  "It wasn't important."
     Scully nodded, not an accepting nod, just an "oh I see,
*that's* what you thought" nod.  She stared at her lap.  "I
remember when I first walked into your office. . .everyone
thought you were crazy, but nobody thought you weren't brilliant. 
I knocked on the door and you'd made all these assumptions. . .I
remember when I figured it out that you'd been abused as a child
and I thought.  `Oh.  So that's why he acts so obsessed.'. .
.When they shut down the X-files, and you started to get. .
.depressed. . .I remember you started to think maybe your belief
in your sister's abduction might be misplaced, might not be true. 
And I knew that if you did that you wouldn't have any focus left,
you'd have nothing.  There'd be this gaping pit of hurt in you
and nothing, no one would be able to fill it."  She paused,
stared at Mulder.  "You never talk about it."
     "No."  He agreed.  
     "You had a nearly normal family life when she was . . .with
you, didn't you?"
     "Yeah.  I guess so."
     "What are you looking for?  Is it because everything went to
hell afterwards?  Is it because your father beat the need to know
into you?"
     "I want to find her, because. . ."  Mulder stared at Scully,
wrapped his arms around his chest.  "Because I love her.  Because
then, maybe everything will be all right.  Becaue I lost her. 
She loved me.  I was her big brother and I could do anything." 
He closed his eyes, tried to keep from crying.  "But I couldn't. 
I couldn't save her, I couldn't rescue her, and now I can't find
her."  His mouth was tight and tears trickled down from his
closed eyes.  He held onto the sobs so tightly it was painful for
Scully and Em to watch.  His entire body shook with the force of
the withheld torment he was experiencing.  
     Emm got the sense that when Mulder was beaten, this was how he
cried.  She wanted to touch him, to hold him the way she held the
children she counselled, to draw him into her lap, put her hands
over the tight fists, and rock him while she hummed a wordless,
nearly tuneless lullaby.  She could not do that without alienating
him.  It was Scully, finally, who went to him.  Mulder jerked away.
He did not want to be touched.  Scully persisted, took his wrists
into her hands, pulled his head against her shoulder.  Mulder
accepted for a moment, then suddenly jerked away, stared around the
room and dashed for the trash can.
     He heaved, great choking, hiccuping heaves, painful to listen
to.  The retching went on and on.  He jerked sharply away from
Scully when she tried to put a hand on his back, to help him in any
way.  
     He sat in the corner, staring blankly at a wall until Emm came
over and shooed Scully away.  "What?"  She asked, sitting close,
but not invading his privacy zone.  "Why did you have to vomit? 
It's okay.  Mulder, we need to talk abut what's happening."
     It was the wrong thing to say, apparently.  Mulder stared a
Emm a moment.  Then pushed her from her safe kneeling position onto
her butt.  She sprawled.  Mulder rushed out the door.  Scully was
after him.  
     "Mulder.  Damn it Mulder!"  Emm heard her scream down the
hallway.  "Stop it.  Stop it."  She heard shoving, heard a door
open and then heard the door being shut.  "You'll have to hit me to
get out.  I'm not letting you go.  Damn it Mulder, go back in there
and sit down!"
     "Fuck you!  You don't have to go through this.  It isn't your
memories she's fucking with.  Fuck you, Miss perfect nuclear
family; Fucking Daddy's favorite.  Two brothers to protect you;
older sister to show you beauty secrets and how to suck cock.  Fuck
you to Hell!"  His voice was strangled, raging, and to Emm's ears,
terrifying.  Emm swallowed, picked herself up.  These are the
little joys of working with adults, she reminded herself.  She was
going to watch Fox Mulder hurt his partner.  
     "No.  I'm not letting you go."  Her voice was confident,
unshaken, unnoticing of his fear-borne curses.  "What are you going
to do?  Spend the rest of your life blaming yourself?  The Fucking
Goddamn Federal Government can't keep people from being abducted,
but one twelve year old boy can?  I know you loved her.  I know." 
The voice grew suddenly tender.  Emm stood in the hallway, watching
the pair.  "I see it everyday that you loved her.  You would have
done anything to save her."  Scully's voice cracked.  Emm heard a
sob, though she could not see Scully's face for Mulder's figure,
towering over his partner.  "I know.  But Mulder, it wasn't your
fault.  You are the most important person in my life.  I can't let
you leave.  You can't just walk out.  I can't let you go on
thinking that what happened was your fault.  It isn't true and it
isn't fair and it hurts. . ." a sob. . ."it hurts me to know that
you think that.  Mulder, this isn't just about you or your
stubbornness. Your life affects mine.  If you can't overcome this,
the problem's going to get worse.  I don't know what will happen,
but I. . ." another sob, this one painful,  ". . .I couldn't bear
to lose you.  I just couldn't stand it."  Her voice broke
completely on the last word.  
     Mulder wrapped his arms around his partner tenderly, gently. 
They stood, wrapped in each other's arms, crying.  Emm left them
alone.

     When it was over and the tears were done, Emm entered the
waiting room.  She did not say anything, just sat quietly in a
chair, handed both agents some kleenex, some bottled water.  "What,
do you keep this on stock for crying jags?"  Mulder asked as he
broke the seal.  
     "Crying jags and thirsty psychotherapists."  Emm replied with
a smile.  "And what do you know?"
     "He fits both categories."  Scully said.  "What do we do now?"
     "Well, I was going to suggest that Mulder come in bright and
early Monday morning at 7.  I'm going to rearrange my schedule and
make some time tomorrow for Mulder.  Dana, I'd like you to come
in sometime soon.  We'll find one of my secretly empty slots."
     "Secretly empty slots?"  Scully inquired.
     "Times she's supposed to be doing research or making phone
calls are editing her papers for publication."  Mulder told his
partner, wrily.  "I don't know how she's kept her partners
bamboozled for so long."
     "They're slow."  Emm replied.  "Didn't you know that's how I
chose my partners?"
      "I always wondered why Ethan Daniels got a job here."
     "Well, now you know."  Emm swallowed.  "Mulder and I didn't
make a schedule for this weekend.  We figured you two could make it
out.  You can do it tomorrow and fax it over here during the day."
     Scully nodded.  "What happens if there are any problems?"
     "You call me.  I don't care what time it is.  The answering
service will put you through."  
     Another nod.  "If Mulder. . .if he. . ."
     "If I wig out completly then you call 911 first, Emm next." 
Mulder told her.
     Emm nodded tiredly.  It was the required practice.  
     "Don't you remember anything you learned at Quantico about
dealing with lunatics?"  Mulder ribbed gently.


     
     Em sat a long time in her office, only the lamp over her desk
turned on, reading and rereading Mulder's confession.  She'd worked
with adult survivors of abuse before.  Seen them screw up their
lives, seen them come in because the court mandated it after they'd
beaten their own children.  But it had never frightened her so
much.  Mulder was intelligent, attractive, and professional.  If he
hadn't lost control on one horrific case, Emm wouldn't be here. 
Mulder wouldn't be getting the help he needed so badly.  She
wondered what would be happening if she hadn't interceded after the
evaluation, insisted that the Bureau give *her* this case, not
handed it down to an LPC with a master's in psych or social work. 
It might be working.  He might be talking.  She glanced back at the
old files she'd gotten from his other therapists.  On the other
hand, he knew the game, he knew how to play it so that the
therapist was pleased and let him go.  When Verber hadn't played
the game, Mulder had cut and run.  Verber had been private, not
mandated, so there'd been no repercussions. 
     Emm contemplated her next move.  Mulder did not consciously
remember any of abuse before Sam's birth.  He knew *something* had
happened, but was fuzzy on what.  For a kid who remembered things
that had happened as an infant, that was damned odd.  She took a
deep breath, went back to the earliest records she'd gotten from
the FBI: Mulder's background check and interviews.   No evidence of
abuse.  Mulder had admitted to his sister's dissappearance, to the
fact that his father had hit him.  The interviewer hadn't pressed
too much, and Mulder made it sound minor, just the act of someone
upset, not an act of brutality.
     Background check.  He was clean.  Nothing, not even a speeding
ticket in England.  Professors liked him immensely, brilliant
student, plenty of good friends.  Mother very quiet and shy, but
ameable.  No problems.  Father cold, hadn't seen son in a while,
but no reports of any problems.  High school teachers--brilliant
child, thought he was going to be a great success.  No mention of
any abuse was made.  Of course not.  It might hurt his chances for
a career in the FBI.
     Emm rubbed her eyes under the glasses.  32 and already wearing
bi-focals, she thought wearily.  She flipped a few pages.  There
were a couple of minor citations--he'd done this or that, nothing
that would hurt his chances for advancement.  Then a note of his
transfer to Behavioral Sciences.  Three month later he'd been
writing profiles.  He'd shot so far so fast.  One of the most
glamourous jobs in the FBI.  There were only 10 people assigned to
writing profiles.  3 years out of Quantico, with no prior law
enforcement experience, and he was writing profiles for Behavioral
Sciences.  His profiles were "spooky" too.  Dead-on every time.  A
couple of years in Behavioral and then a citation, then another. 
Assigned to therapy following an incident in Oklahoma.  His
profiles got better, his behavior became eratic.  Then he'd started
digging into the X-files.  He went into therapy again, voluntarily.
Transfered to Verber.  His behavior didn't get any better, but
there weren't many efforts made.  The opinion Emm read was:was: he
was in therapy, what more did anyone ask?
     Transfer back to violent crimes.  No explanation.  A lot of
bad reports--citations, censures, a suspension of two days that was
later rescinded and not supposed to hurt his career.  Yeah right. 
But his efficiency rating on the X-files he'd taken upon himself
was pretty good.  Okay.  Then Scully comes along.  Less bad
reports.  Efficieny rating goes through the roof.  An investigation
to see if they were fudging anywhere only sends the rating higher. 
Without explanation, Mulder is suddenly in surveilance.  Then
without explanation again, he is back in the X-files, only the X-
files are given official status as a division.  Mulder is the
division head, given appropriate salary increase.  
     Which led Emm to where they were.  She noted there were a lot
of hospital bills affixed in a separate file.  More than she'd ever
seen for a single agent.  So he was accident prone.  So are a lot
of abuse survivors.  Was he unconsciously suicidal?
     No.  That implied a need for death.  Mulder just didn't care
about himself enough not to take chances.  When the choice came
between himself and a case, there was no question: he didn't
matter.  The Truth did.
     Emm read the Mulder's page again.  She could not hospitalize
him.  She could not increase his therapy sessions by any great
amount without explaining, without upgrading his DSM-IV diagnosis--
times like this she wished they were back in the old days before
Managed care, before it was dictated clearly how many hours a week
you had before you had to tell the insurance company that the
patient was a lot worse off than you'd thought he was.
     Emm took off her glasses, put her face in her hands, breathed
a few minutes, thought of nothing, then quickly, in her own file on
F. Mulder, wrote her next objective for Mulder's therapy.
     

     Mulder has to understand that he is a worthwhile
individual, that he was helpless in his sister's
abduction, and that he did nothing to deserve or warrant
abuse.  That the abuse was wrong.  I expect to obtain
this objective around the time Hell freezes over. 


She yawned and closed the file.








 Author's note:
There will be more.  I hope.  This is hard stuff to write.


From: amperage@aol.com (Amperage)
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: Second part of Therapy (I of 8)
Date: 20 Jul 1995 14:47:15 -0400


Therapy II, part 1.  
by Amperage

This is a continuation of an earlier work that I left dangling. 
(Please note I said continuation, not conclusion no weeping and
wailing. . .well, some weeping and wailing.  I have a maschostic
streak in me.) If you haven't read the beginning Mulder's in
therapy with Dr. Emmaline Harris and he just wigged in her office
a few days ago.  I really reccommend you go back and read the first
section though.  

If you have read the first bit and you're one of those people who
sent Goo death threats because I was helping her with Corpse
instead of writing. . .Thank you.  Goo needs the occasional death
threat.  Keeps her humble.  Makes me feel loved too.

Thanks to Livengoo and rodent for editing this and generally
helping me shape it, for offering suggestions and being a sounding
board and trying to get me help for the headaches.  

Thanks to the Monkey Boy for being sweet and sending me Etched.
(Now, that one won't make any sense except to a few people. 
chuckle. Chuckle.  I warned you about the mascochistic streak.  Did
I mention the sadistic one?)

No more of this self indulgent crap.

The characters of Mulder, Scully, Skinner and Phoebe Greene are all
creations of Chris Carter and belong to 10-13 productions and Fox
broadcasting.  I have freely used them all without permission.

    


      "How was your weekend?"  Emm asked as she and Mulder slid
into their usual places in her office.  Mulder took the couch, 
Emm took a wing chair.  
     "Scully was overbearingly maternal. I had to go to Sunday
Dinner at the Scully house."
     "Sounds like fun."
     "You've obviously never met Scully's godson.  We've
investigated cases with less evidence of satanic possession."
     Emm smiled.  
     "At least Scully's the same way I am about parenthood."
     "Which is?"
     "Completely and totally ambivalent.  You don't have any."
     "I spend so much time with kids here. . ."  Emm trailed.  "I
just don't have the energy for any of my own.  If you ever became
a father, what would scare you the most?"
     Mulder frowned.  "Losing my temper,"  he said finally.  "You
should have figured that out by now."
     Emm nodded.  "Thursday night, what were you feeling?"
     Mulder swallowed.  "I just wanted out.  I didn't want to have
to face any of it anymore."
     Emm nodded.  She did not mention that she would have had to
call 911 if he had left.  State law required her to notify the
police any time she had a patient who had become violent and who
might hurt himself or hurt someone else.  
     "We're going to have to come up with some ways for you to deal
with that anger.  You don't lose it when you're interrogating
suspects, do you?"
     "I didn't kill Duane Berry."  Mulder stared at Emm.  Bad move
Emm.  Back down.  
     "I know,"  Emm replied calmly, more calmly than she felt. 
     Mulder glowered.  "I don't want to talk about this."  
     Emm nodded.  She hated backing down, but he wasn't ready.  She
wasn't ready.  "There are some techniques we can use to help you
learn to deal with the anger."
     "I know."  Mulder smiled.  "I know."  The voice was resigned. 
     "All right.  You did a third person description. I'd like to
hear it."
     Mulder frowned.  "I don't. . .it wasn't very good."    
     "So?  It's between us."
     Mulder found his notebook, began handing it over.
     Emm shook her head.  "Read for me."
     Mulder hesitated.  "I. . .please.  This is embarrassing."
     "That's an excuse,"  Emm said gently.  "No.  You read it to
me."
     Mulder opened the pages, rifled through them.  He sat a
moment, summoning courage, hating the pain this was causing him.
"Subject is currently 34 years of age,"  he read in a soft
monotone.  "When subject was 12 his sister, age 8, was kidnapped
from the family home in Chilmark MA.  No trace of the sister,
Samantha, was ever discovered, and the crime is still unsolved. 
Subject was babysitting when incident occurred.  Subject was sole
witness to the incident.  When found, the patient was in a
dissociative state.  He retained amnesia concerning all events of
the abduction until entering regression hypnosis therapy, when he
was able to retrieve some memory of the event."
     Emm nodded.  So far so good.  Okay.  The hard parts were
coming.
     "The patient was physically battered in early childhood until
the time of his sister's birth.  The patient knows he was abused,
but does not remember this abuse.  A search of Chilmark hospital
records is recommended to confirm the belief in this abuse and to
verify its severity."  Mulder paused, hands trembling .
     "Okay."  Emm urged.  "Come on.  It's okay."
     "After the abduction of his sister, the subject was violently
battered until he left home to study at Oxford.  He. . ." Mulder
stopped. He used both hands to clutch the small notebook, keep
it from trembling.  "He was beaten and attacked by his father. 
Methods of abuse ranged from severe beltings, to pummelling with
the father's fists and feet, to attacks with various implements."
     "Currently the patient sees himself as responsible for the
abduction of his sister and feels his father's abuse was
justified."  Mulder looked up, clearly not finished, clearly not
planning to say more.
   "Did he deserve it?  Come on.  You're the clinician,"  Emm's
voice purred.  "Clinically, what are you going to say?"
     Mulder swallowed, threw the book down.  "The patient suffers
from PTSD,"  he said, staring ahead into nothingness.  "He also has
a low self-image and has difficulty forming long term
relationships. . ."  Mulder trailed.  Tears were again forming in
his eyes.
     "Did he deserve it?"  Emm repeated softly.  
     "Shut up!"  Mulder screamed suddenly, unexpectedly.  "Just
Shut up!  I deserved it.  I deserved it."  Mulder put the heels of
his hands to his temple, clutched his hair in his hands.  He
rocked, and Emm heard his breathing, desperate as he tried to stop
the crying.  After a moment Mulder looked at her.  "I can't say
what you want me to.  It isn't true." His voice was soft.
     "But would an outside observer see that?"  Emm asked.  "What
would an outside observer see?"
     "They wouldn't know.  They wouldn't. . .understand,"  Mulder
replied.  He stared at a small stuffed bear on top of Emm's
chifforobe.  "People don't understand what it was like," he
repeated, withdrawing from the confrontation.  His walls were 
unbreached.
     Emm took deep, calm breaths, followed his stare up to the top
of the chifforobe.  "Did you ever have a stuffed animal?"
     Mulder closed his eyes.  "Once.  For a while."  He looked down
at his hands.  
     Emm stared at the trembling figure.  Every once in a great
while something just niggled at her until she answered it.  She
went and got the bear.  It was a jointed bear, the kind with the
intelligent faces that are used in decorating.  "He was going to a
friend for her birthday.  She collects bears,"  Emm said, reaching
up.  "What kind of stuffed animal was it?"
     Mulder stared at his therapist for a few minutes, no doubt
wondering if she had gone completely around the bend.   
     "A bear.  My great aunt Miranda gave it to me when I was
little.  She died when I was four."
     "Oh?"
     "Yeah.  Car crash.  Someone drove her off the road."
     Emm put the bear down on the coffee table, rearranged herself
in the wing chair.  
     "What happened to it?"
     Mulder shrugged.  "I don't remember."
     "Really?"  
     Mulder frowned.  
     "Did you lose it?"
     "No."
     "Did you give it to your sister?"
     "No.  Sam had enough stuffed animals."
     "Well then?"
     "I fell down the landing and the bear. . .it. . ."  Mulder
frowned. "The bear. . .I guess I tore it up.  When we got back from
the hospital, it was just lying there, all torn up.  Dad didn't say
anything.  He was always really nice after I got hurt."  Mulder
looked up.  
     "Did your dad get you another bear to replace that one?"
     "No.  I think he was glad the old one finally disintegrated." 
Mulder smiled.  "He didn't think boys should have any toys like
that."
     "Did you fall down the landing or did your dad hit you?"  Emm
asked softly.  
     Mulder did not answer.  
     "What did your dad do to the bear?"
     "I left it in his car.  I was going to kindergarten and Dad
had told the school I was really mature. . ."  Mulder looked up. 
"He ripped it up.  He said I was too big for the bear, and he was
going to make sure I didn't have my bear anymore.  He just tore it
up like it was nothing.  He tore off the head and then the arms. 
I don't remember anything else."  Mulder swallowed.  "The next
thing I remember is the hospital and Dad holding me while they gave
me shots.  He recited poetry to me and told me stories while the
doctors set my arm."
     "You know the pattern?"
     "Yeah.  Abusers that are. . .that just sometimes get angry and
can't. . ."  Mulder's voice was calm, devoid of affect.  ". . .when
it's over they try to make it up."
     "Mhm."  Emm was silent for a while.  "Did he ever apologize?"
     "No.  He didn't want me having the bear.  He tore it up so I
wouldn't have a bear."
     "What did your mother think?"
     Mulder shrugged.  "What did she care?  She was pregnant and
this time she made a girl."  Emm frowned at the resentment in
Mulder's voice.  It hinted at things he had only barely expressed. 
     Emm handed Mulder the bear.  
     "What's this for?"
     "For a little boy whose daddy had the capability of destroying
the one thing in the world that that little boy thought was
worthwhile."
     Mulder swallowed.  "I don't want it."
     "Why?  No one's going to hurt *this* bear.  Just take it home
and put it somewhere safe.  If anyone asks it's a Christmas present
for a shrink friend of yours who likes bears."
     "This is silly.  I don't need this."     
     "I know."  Emm nodded.  "But I want you to have it.  For
safekeeping."  For a reminder about what kind of man would tear up
a four-year old's bear.  The same kind of man who would tell his
son that he was responsible for his sister's disappearance. 
Sometimes therapy was like breaking down walls with sledgehammers. 
Usually it was like chipping at concrete with a sculptor's chisel.
      She sighed.  "What did your dad do, after the hospital?  What
did he do to make you feel special?"  She asked gently.
     Mulder kept the bear in his lap.  "He got me new books, books
I hadn't read yet, hadn't seen.  The doctors gave me some
painkillers that made me sleepy so I couldn't read the books, so he
would read for me.  I would drift into sleep and he would be
reading. He'd sit on the edge of the bed and I'd put my face
against his leg.  He always wore wool flannel trousers, and
they felt nice, rough and gentle at the same time.  His voice was.
. .it was nice, lulling.  I liked coke floats, so he would fix them
for me.  He'd make sure there was enough ice cream and that there
was a straw and a long tea spoon.  If I was too groggy with pain
killers he would spoon it for me, put a fluffy towel under my chin
and give me spoonfuls of the slush.  He. . ."  Mulder swallowed.  
     "So there were good times too?"
     Mulder nodded.  
     "How long would the good times last?"
     "A week or two.  One time I broke my tibia when I was three. 
He carried me around all 9 weeks I was in the cast.  He'd set me
down where ever I wanted to be set.  When I was at the hospital,
he'd come in from teaching and mom would go home and he'd stay all
night.  When it hurt he'd just hold me, let me cry against him.  It
felt warm.  I was safe there, even for just that bit. Sometimes,
when I was older, after Sam disappeared, I would wake up and I
would. . .I would just be scared.  I wouldn't know what was real. 
I'd think--`I'm the only person alive.  Everyone else is gone.' 
And there he'd be.  Sitting in his study with the light on, doing
paperwork.  Eating sunflower seeds.  He had a rhythm to it.  Seed
in mouth, suck, split seed, spit out hull, and eat.  I knew he was
there."  Mulder frowned.  
     "What happened to your leg?
     Mulder shrugged.  "I just broke it.  I said I fell."
     Emm took a deep breath, let it go. "Mulder, you've got to stop
saying `I broke this or that.'  When you're in here, you need to
say the truth."
     Mulder stared at Emm.  "I know he did it,"  Mulder replied. 
"I know that.  It doesn't matter though."
     Emm swallowed.  "Yes, it does matter.  It does matter."
     "I didn't mind breaking things or getting hurt when I was
little.  I really didn't.  Dad just got mad and couldn't help it.
He didn't mean to hurt me.  And he loved me.  He took care of me
afterwards."  Mulder was desperate that Emm not destroy this myth. 
He knew his father had abused him without reason, he knew that, but
all he had was this myth.  Emm stared at Mulder, tried to decide
what to say next.  It was clear that right now he couldn't stand
for her to destroy his good memories.  She didn't want to destroy
the memories, only make him see them objectively, but to Mulder it
would be a destruction.  
     "When did you start thinking about the abuse?" she asked, not
sure when her chance would come again to try and break down this
myth, to get him to see, but certain that now was not the time.
     "Umm. . .a couple of summers ago, when the X-files were shut 
down.  I just woke up one morning and I thought about it. . .well.
. .. 
I guess I'd just about stopped believing in anything.  I was just
getting up and going to work and nothing mattered, not even the
fiction that I was a clumsy little kid."  He was on more familiar
footing, his voice modulated more clearly.
     "What about the fiction that it wasn't his fault?"  Emm asked
sharply.  
     Mulder looked at Emm inquiringly.
     Emm winced, sighed. Damn it, damn it.  She hadn't meant to say
that.  She needed to be more gentle, more neutral.  Shit.  "I'm
sorry," she apologized.  "I'm tired."
     Mulder stared a long time.  "It wasn't always his fault. 
Besides, they were young."
     "`They'?"  Emm questioned.
     Mulder frowned.  "Mom's 6 years younger than Dad."
     Emm said nothing, wondered why Mulder made a point that his
mother was younger than his father.  It did not prove that his
parents were young.  "So your father tore up your bear when your
mother was pregnant.  And then he broke your arm."
     Mulder swallowed and nodded.  
     "Your mother never interfered in the abuse."
     Mulder shook his head, stopped himself.  "They separated
because of it."
     "You never really explained that,"  Emm replied, brow
furrowing.  "What happened?  Tell me about why they separated."
     Mulder took a couple of deep breaths, thought a few minutes. 
"I. . .I'd spent the night at the hospital and then I came back. 
We had a new coach, Coach Douglas, and I was on the basketball
team. I guess I was pretty messed up. . ."  A nervous swallow. "Dad
had used a broom handle on me after he finished belting me one
night. . .Coach Douglas saw me when I was taking a shower."  Mulder
closed his eyes.  "He didn't go talk to the principal or call
social services.  He called a buddy of his who was on the state
police."  He sat a moment, no doubt lost in the painful humiliation
of being forced to show his injuries to strangers.  "They forced
the DA into filing charges. . .but then Mom and Dad said they'd
separate and I'd live with Mom. . .so the charges were dropped."
     "Did your Dad have to get therapy?  Do anything?  Not see
you?"
     Mulder shook his head.  "They didn't hire Coach Douglas the
next year."
     "After your parents separated what happened?"
     "Nothing."
     "Did you still get abused?"
     Mulder nodded. 
     "Mulder, did your mother ever hit you?"
     "She wasn't like Dad.  She was just quiet.  She went into the
hospital 4 times before I graduated from high school. . .It. . .Dad
would get sick when she would have to go. . .he really loved her a
lot."
     It was not an answer to Emm's question.  "After you went off
to school, they didn't get back together.  Why not?"
     Mulder shrugged.  "Dad was drinking some then, and Mom. . .it
scared her, even though Dad didn't drink a lot, he still drank. .
." he paused.  "What are you trying to prove, Emm?"
     "That your mother *may* have been a silent partner in the
abuse.  You've alluded to the fact that your mother never wanted a
boy."
     "She loved me."  
     Emm found herself nodding.  "I think so, but I also think that
Sam was the important one to her.  I don't know.  I don't know your
parents."  She shrugged.  "When did your mother go through the
change?"
     "God, Emm, I don't know."  Mulder colored slightly.  
     "Well, did your father have a vasectomy?"
     Mulder was quiet.  "Samanatha was special in and of herself. 
There couldn't be any replacing her,"  he finally said.  He grabbed
the bear sitting beside him on the couch, began rubbing its ears as
though it were a dog. "Mom loved me.  Mom never wanted anything bad
to happen to me," he said softly, staring not at Emm but at the
bear.  Emm wavered.  She was uncertain if she should attack the
myth Mulder was trying so desperately to protect right now.  She
frowned, decided not to push.  
     "Okay.  We only have a few minutes left."  Emm took a deep
breath.  "I'd like you to stay with Scully for a few more days."
     Mulder looked up from the bear.  "I'm back at my own apartment
already."
     Emm appraised Mulder.  "I don't think that's wise."
     Mulder shrugged, extravagantly smiled.  "I'm not going to take
any half-gainers, Emm.  I was tired, that's all."
     Emm stared at the agent, trying to see how much of this was
conscious behavior.  Enough that he knew why he was doing this. 
"You need to stay with Scully," she repeated in a neutral tone of
voice.  "Mulder, I don't want to have to call 911 some night.  If
you call me and you're in a disturbed frame of mind, I have to call
911.  Do you know what they do in a call like that?"
     "Seventy two hour hold."
     "They tie you down to a stretcher and take you into a hospital
with a violent ward and then they strip search you, lock you in a
room with a mattress on the floor and then they pump you so full of
drugs that you can't think.  It's a humiliating experience."
     Mulder smiled winningly.  "I know the legal system.  Don't
worry, Emm."
     Emm considered her options.  She could call Skinner. . .on
what grounds exactly?  Oh, she could make it convincing and get
Mulder put on leave.  She frowned.    
     "I don't like this, but I don't have a lot of choices."  She
was going to get a call in the middle of the night and find out
that Mulder was under a 72 hour hold.  She was going to get a call
that he had struck out or that he had gone inward.  Emm took a deep
breath, counted to five.  "Mulder, there is a very large chance
that you're going to start remembering things.  There is a very
large chance that it will overwhelm you.  When it does, I want you
to know that I did what I am required to do.  I didn't do it to
spite you or hurt you or make you feel bad or because I want to
win.  I'll do it because the law requires me to do it, and because
I don't want you to hurt yourself."  She kept her voice
intentionally calm and relaxed.  
     "Emm, I had a bad night.  Aren't I entitled to a bad night
every so often?"  Mulder kept his own voice logical.  He knew this
game as well as she did, probably better.
     "Yes.  But if you have another bad night you could hurt
yourself or someone else."  Emm took off her glasses, rubbed her
eyes with a thumb and index finger.  "I can't let that happen. 
Even if you don't lose it, you still need her emotional support." 
     "I don't need Scully hovering over me all day with this look
on her face like I'm going to explode at any moment.  I don't need
to be treated like a child you're scared to let stay by himself.
I'm going to be fine Emm.  I'm going to do okay."
     Emm shrugged.  "Okay.  You won't lose it," she agreed, heart
sinking to the pit of her stomach.  She could call his bosses at
the FBI get him put on psychiatric leave, but what good would that
do her?  She honestly didn't think he'd lose it on the job, too
hyper for that. No, he'd wait until he was alone to lose it.  But
Emm really, really hoped it wasn't on a case out in a Nebraska
cornfield where some other therapist, one who hadn't taken the
course on "accepting multicultural systems" and really integrated
it into his practice far enough to accept UFO's, would try to
"help" Mulder, probably with large doses of a major tranquilizer.
     Emm closed her eyes.  "You know how to get in touch with me,
Right?"
     Mulder nodded.  "Emm, there's nothing to be scared of."  His
voice was easy, the cool therapy voice of a good psychologist.  
     "If you ever feel like hurting yourself or just feel like
you've got to talk, you call me first.  If you can't get through
then you call Scully."  Emm stared at Mulder, stared hard.  
     Mulder smiled.
 
===========================================================================

From: amperage@aol.com (Amperage)
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: Part II of Therapy (2 of 8)
Date: 20 Jul 1995 15:03:11 -0400



Therapy II part 2,
by Amperage@AOL.com

All characters found in the X-files, a 10-13 production airing on
Fox were used without permission.

     Emm gave Lissa Keel's shoulder a hug as she returned the
little girl to her foster mother.  "We're doing hard work," she
told the older woman.  "Lissa's really trying."  
     Mrs. Hancock smiled, collected Lissa close to her.  "Is there
anything I'm supposed to do this week?" she asked softly.
     "Lissa will tell you."  Emm smiled, letting herself through
the door into the office.  She leaned against the door, breathed in
the smell of carbon and heat emanating from the practice's Xerox
machine.  
     "Tough morning?" Khris Anderson asked sympathetically, sipping
on his morning coffee.
     "The tough one's coming up,." Emm replied, automatically
straightening his Star Wars tie for him, smiling at the gentle
face.  He looked like a tonsured monk, he was so bald at the pate
now.  Emm could see him as a gentle Franscican or a sophisticated
but compassionate Jesuit.    
     Khris read her face.  "You shouldn't take adults," he said
gently.
     "I'm a therapist," Emm replied.  "I can distance myself."
     Khris smiled, shook his head.  "Emm, I've known you for 11
years.  You don't distance well enough."
     "Mea Culpa."  Emm shrugged, pulling his cup to her, taking a
guilty sip.  
     Khris shook his head, bemused, just as she'd meant him to be. 
     "Who's next for you?" she asked.
     "Morton twins."
     "Ah." ADHD; sometimes it was nice to know there were kids out
there with problems that had nothing to do with parenting. "Nice
normal kids with chemical imbalances.  Nobody's ever beaten them
with a belt or a baseball bat."
     Khris shook his head.  "You need some time to yourself."
     Emm chuckled. "Since when did you become delusional, Khris?"
     Khris smiled. "I know, I know.  Still.  When does the
Timons case come up to court?"
     "Four weeks.  If everything goes right."  
     Khris sighed.
     Emm glanced out the receptionist's window into the waiting
room.  
     "The tall, cute one," Khris guessed.  
     Emm nodded.  "Always punctual."
     "FBI?"
     Emm nodded again. "Heartbreaking," she said.  It was as far
as confidentiality would let her go.  
     Khris sighed.  "You won't do your patients any good in a major
depression."
     Emm took a deep breath expelled it.  "Khris, don't fucking
start to psychoanalyze me.  You know it's been done by far better
in the past."
     She moved past Khris, thought about apologizing, shrugged. 
She'd actually been pretty polite.  After she'd actually *seen*
Mulder, she probably would have taken Khris's head off with her
teeth and a toothpick.  
     

     "Mulder?"  Emm's voice was soft.  Mulder looked up, swallowed
nervously.
     Emm considered him, considered his gait.  He was nervous and
tired.  Mulder stepped over toys and children.  Emm smiled
ruefully.
     "If I trip over a power ranger who do I sue?"  Mulder asked,
following her down the narrow corridor.  "Fox Broadcasting, Saban
entertainment or the practice?"
     "All three and in that order," Emm replied with a grin. 
"How've you been?"
     Mulder shrugged.  "Not real good," he told her, letting Emm
open the door, following her into the office.
     "Okay."  Emm took her wing chair.  Mulder took the couch. 
"What's going on?"
     "I think. . .I . . ."  Mulder trailed, frowned, lost in his
thoughts. "I started crying in Skinner's office.  It was just the
usual `Bend over, grab your ankles, and don't expect any vaseline'
reaming.  And I started crying.  He had to call Scully in.  I
couldn't move,"  deep breath, "couldn't talk."  He crossed his arms
over his chest.  His nails began digging, scratching through the
expensive suit material, through the cotton of his shirt.  "It was
so. . .humiliating."
     "What did Skinner do?"
     Mulder shrugged.  "He left, let Scully get me calmed down."  
     "Did he mention it again?"
     "Not to me.  He asked Scully about it, and she told him I was
`working through some things in therapy' and he just. . ."  Mulder
shrugged.   "He told Scully we weren't to go into the field until
I had more control and he also told her he wanted all files routed
through her instead of through me.  She can. . .I'll still have to
do most of it, but he wants her to have final say so, instead of
me. . .They talked about taking my gun, but then there'd be
something on my jacket and he doesn't want to do that yet."  Mulder
stared straight ahead at a far wall, fingers scratching and
pinching and pulling.
     "Why did you start crying?"
     "I don't know."  Mulder stared at nothing.  "I want out of
this, Emm.  I can't stand very much more of this.  I can't afford
to pull out my defenses.  I don't have much of a career left as it
is. If I'm hospitalized or if I do anything stupid they'll put me
on psych disability.  I can't find work, I can't try and find out
with that label.  It won't matter that I've got a degree in psych,
or that I spent years with the FBI.  I'll just be another nut case.
Emm, I'm sorry, I can't handle this any longer.  I've got to stop."
His voice was rational, calm, but moving faster and faster.  
     "Did Skinner put anything on your jacket?"
     "No.  But he could."
     "He didn't, though."
     "He looks at the good of the Bureau, that's what he's supposed
to do."
     "Then apparently he doesn't think the good of the Bureau would
be served by hurting you."  
     "No.  I'm not doing this anymore."  Mulder stared at Emm.  His
eyes were cold, glittering like glass marbles.  He relaxed his
hands.  "I'm sorry Emm; I'm sorry to cut and run, but I'm not doing
this anymore."
     Emm took a deep breath.  "Mulder you *are* going to do this.
This is not voluntary therapy but mandated therapy."
     "I'll tell psych services I want another therapist."
     "And I'll tell psych services not to let you.  They'll
investigate and a third party will look into the case.  If I have
to, I'll get Scully into this and she *will*tell*them* why you want
to change.  I am so sorry this has to hurt so badly.  I wish I
could wave my wand over your head and it would be all better.  But
we both know it doesn't work that way." 
     "You left Verber when things got too rough, but this time you
*aren't* going to do that.  I'll be dammed if you throw everything
away.  No.  You are *not* leaving therapy.  Not *this* time."
     Mulder stared straight ahead, did not respond.  
     "Who were you mad at when you started crying?" Emm asked
quietly.
     "No one."  Mulder's voice was curt.
     Emm stared at Mulder.  Gentleness would be a mistake, fighting
back would be a mistake.  "Why are you here?" she asked.
     "Because I have to be," Mulder replied. 
     "You started beating your hand against a fireplace.  You
wouldn't stop when Scully tried to stop you.  The sheriff's
deputies had to hold you down.  And then. . ."  Emm swallowed, god,
she hated using this against him.  "They had you in cuffs on the
ride down to the hospital.  Scully told me. You were to the point
that you made sense, but you were still hostile.  Getting out of
therapy with me isn't going to stop incidents like that."
     "I wouldn't have broken down in front of Skinner."  
     "No.  You wouldn't have.  What are you scared of?  That he
doesn't see you as a big, macho guy?"
     "I already told you why."
     "All right.  But what worse can you do in front of the man? 
Go psychotic?  What will he do then?  Take your gun and put a
notation that you seemed `disturbed and distraught?'  You're Spooky
Mulder. No one will care as long as you keep your efficiency rating
high, as long as your contacts in Congress think you're still hot
shit, as long as you turn in the occasional perfect profile. "
     Mulder got up, began pacing.  "I have got to get out of this,
Emm.  I have got to stop.  I can't control myself any more.  You've
ripped away every last fucking defense I've got and I can't handle
it anymore."  He stopped in front of Emm's chiffarobe, stared at
it.  "Your dolls and your toys and your fucking crayons.  I can't.
. . do this."
     "I haven't ripped anything from you," Emm said in a quiet
voice.  Still sitting in her chair, she faced away from the
chiffarobe.  She couldn't see his movements.  Every hair on her
body was standing straight up and she had to act calm, had to act
like she wasn't scared.  "The moment you stop seeing me, it'll all
go back into place."
     "That's what I want, damn it!"  She heard a thud reverberate
against the chifforobe door and winced involuntarily.  "Damn you! 
Damn you!" he yelled, turning on his heel.  "Damn you to fucking
hell, Dr. Emmaline Harris!  What do you know about it?  Who fucking
hit you upside the head as a child so that you're so scared of me?
That you want to play with children and talk about memories I've
spent a lifetime trying to forget?"
     Emm swallowed, felt the blood drain out of her body, leave her
frozen cold.  She stood, turned, clutched her pen. He was there,
staring at her wingchair.  
     "Fuck you!  Fuck you!  Who was it?  Your dad?  What?  Did he
come in with his belt?  Did he rip your panties off and make
you stand there shivering while his belt kept pounding and pounding
into your flesh?  What?  Did he just get mad and hit you?  And what
did you tell yourself, Emm?  What did you do?  Did you take care of
everyone else?  Is that how you got into the psychology game?  What
the fucking hell happened that you turned out this way?"
     "My parents abused me violently," Emm said quietly.  "It took
a long time for me to work through it, to understand what had
happened.  They both beat me and my father raped me."
     Silent, Mulder stared at Emm.  He had not expected an answer. 
     "I lived and I moved on and I learned new ways of coping.  And
yes, it hurts like hell to change, and yes, it terrifies me when
you get mad, but I don't care.  You can get as mad as you want, you
can tear up my office, and you could even hit me and send me to the
hospital with stitches and broken bones, but I'm not letting you go
to another therapist, damn it."  Emm set her jaw.  
     "You're going to go through this, and you are going to learn
new patterns and if it hurts like fucking hell, then it hurts like
fucking hell and if it's the hardest thing you've ever done then
it's the hardest thing you've ever fucking done."  
     They stared at each other.  Emm was trembling, clutching a pen
in her hand like a weapon, holding on tightly.  Mulder just stared.
     "What did you do?" he asked.  "How did you get out?"
     Emm took a deep breath, another deep breath, relaxed. 
Shrugged.  "When I was 11, Momma left us in foster care one day and
never looked back.  When I told them that I'd been raped, they
wouldn't let Daddy have us."  She shrugged again.  "The others got
adopted into other families--I was the only older one, and my
parents made really cute kids."
     "Do you keep up with your brothers and sisters?"
     Emm shook her head.  "It was easier for them if I just let go,
let them have normal lives.  I never. . .I always just knew my
parents were screwed up and that when I got out I'd be okay
with a little help."  She shrugged.  "When I was in the homes I
found out most kids thought *they* were the screwed up ones. I
figured it would make good life's work, trying to help kids figure
out what had happened, figure out where to go with the rest of
their lives.  You're really good to figure out that I was abused. 
Most of my partners don't even know."
     "I'm `Spooky',"  Mulder replied with a small smile.  
     "I know you're terrified.  I know that.  If we need to we can
back up, spend some more time doing things that don't scare you. 
But you've got to face this, you've got to relearn."  Emm took a
deep breath.  "I think you know that."
     Mulder shrugged, closed his eyes.  He took almost a minute of
quiet, then spoke.  "It hurts.  God, Emm, it hurts.  I just want to
die."
     Emm nodded.  "But it won't stop hurting until you work through
this.  All you'll be doing is hiding the hurt again.  The hurt's
still there and it's going to keep bubbling through, it's going to
keep polluting you.  You've got to do this, got to."

    Mulder stood staring at the Chifforobe.  "It won't bring her
back," he said softly.  "If she came back things would be better."
     Emm had no answers for him, just went and held him gently, the
way she did her children.

===========================================================================

From: amperage@aol.com (Amperage)
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: Part II of Therapy (3 of 8)
Date: 20 Jul 1995 15:03:18 -0400


Therapy II, part 3
by Amperage@AOL.com

Insert standard x-files creative disclaimer here.

     "How're you doing?"  Emm asked, wondering what she was letting
herself in for.  Dana Scully looked tired.
     "I'm okay. Mulder's not."
     "I know."  Emm opened the door to her office, stepped back to
let Dana enter first.  "He told me he started crying in Skinner's
office."
     Scully took her customary place in the other wing chair.  "It
was kind of bad, but Mulder's probably obsessing over it.  Skinner
was. . .understanding."  
     "What happened?"
     "Oh, the usual paperwork problems, nothing really bad. .
.Skinner's just confrontational; he has to be.  And Mulder was
sitting there, answering questions one minute and crying the next. 
Skinner left Mulder alone, tried to give him time to calm
down and he just. . .Mulder was almost hysterical.  When I got
there, he was on the floor, sobbing."  Scully frowned.  "I don't
know.  It was. . .scary, but not. . .even if I hadn't come in, I
think Mulder would have gotten it together eventually. . ."
     "What were the repercussions?"
     "Skinner. . .I told Mulder that Skinner wanted me to check
over our work.  Skinner wants me to censor what comes into the
office, basically."
     "That's wise."  Emm replied.
     "I know.  But I don't know what. . ."  Scully frowned.  "I
don't know what things are important.   Mulder can. . .smell these
things. . .I can't explain it.  It isn't just knowledge.  It's
something past intuition.  Something almost presentient."
     "Skinner didn't put anything on Mulder's jacket?"
     Scully shook her head, distracted by her thoughts.  "I know
that it's because he's eidetic and so intelligent, that he sees a
thousand details and he can relate them all to each other.  But it
doesn't seem that way sometimes."  She looked up.  "It seems
spooky."
     Emm took a deep breath, released it.  "I know."
     "You sound like you've had a taste of it."
     Emm shrugged.  "When he tries to hurt someone, he knows
exactly where to cut."
     Scully smiled.  "Is that from what you've seen of our
relationship or do you have your own battle wound now?"
     "He thought he was rubbing an open wound."  Emm swallowed. 
"Fortunately for me, I'm not most people.  It's just a tender
scar."
     "Ah."  Scully nodded.  "My sympathies.  No.  Skinner didn't do
anything.  He doesn't want Mulder going off.  He's scared Mulder
will pull something in public.  We talked about taking his gun, but
agents are required to carry service pieces.  If Skinner made an
exception he'd have to note it."
     Emm nodded.  
     "He's. . .relieved Mulder's in therapy, I think," Scully
finished.  
     "Have there been any other crying jags?"
     Scully nodded quietly.  "One that I know of.  Mulder plays
softball on an FBI team; they're all blood thirsty: I mean they
play softball like it was a murder investigation; no, I take that
back.  They don't treat some murder investigations this seriously.
I go watch them play sometimes.  Me and the wives," she snorted
sarcastically.  "His team won their game and they were all happy. 
Mulder went to get his sneakers, get out of the cleats, and his
shoes had been stolen.  He just. . .exploded, started swearing and
yelling.  Everyone got quiet and watched him.  I started yelling
back, and for a minute all you could hear on that field was our
voices."  Scully closed her eyes.  "Then he said, fine, just fine,
he was leaving.  I followed him, I had to run to keep up with him. 
I didn't want to get into the car, not with him driving, but. . ."
she frowned, trailed.  "We got about four blocks and he started
crying. I managed to get the car onto a side street."  She
swallowed.  "Emm, it was like. . .I don't know.  Emm, how long is
it going to be like this?"
     "I don't know."
     "He's . . .it's like he's on a wire now.  He balances okay for
a while then. . .then it's like the slightest thing pushes him
over.  When will he get better?"
     "When he stops trying to walk that wire,"  Emm answered
honestly.  "When he admits that he is a valuable and worthwhile
person.  When he stops taking responsibility for everything that
goes wrong in his life."  
     Scully shook her head.  "Why isn't he on drugs?  He won't talk
about it.  You recommended drugs in your evaluation."
     "He won't go to a doctor.  We spent our first two sessions
arguing about it."
     Scully nodded.  "Well, he's going to a doctor now.  Can you
set us up with someone?"
     "I can.  But doesn't Mulder have to make this decision?"
     Scully stared at Emm.  "When Mulder stops curling up and
sobbing hysterically, he has that right, as far as I'm concerned." 
Her voice was flat, no-nonsense.
     "Take this carefully, Dana," Emm replied.  "You know what
drugs can do, you trust them, but Mulder's an adult.  He knows what
drugs can do too and it scares him.  This is his decision, not
yours."
     Scully considered Emm, opened her mouth to retort, then
swallowed, nodded.  Deep breath.  "He's scared of how it will
change his thinking, isn't he?"
     Emm nodded.
     "If I fight him on it, he'll withdraw from me."
     "Probably.  He doesn't want you mothering him.  You've got to
remember that somewhere inside Mulder sees you as. . ."
     ". . .a little sister."  Scully finished for her. "What if I
get something like Valium, just for when he's upset?"
     Emm shrugged. "It would help him, but then so would the
TCAs.  He might acquiesce to the anti-anxiety agents, just so that
when you have to deal with him you don't get worried, but this is
his decision to make, not yours."
     Scully nodded, leaned her head back against the velvet of the
chair.  "It's hard not to get impatient.  I feel like. . .I mean
it's so. . ."  She sighed.  "I want for everything to just be all
right and it's not."  She sat a moment.  "I've had friends die. My
father died a couple of years ago.  And it was hard, but I know
somehow, that they're okay, that death isn't anything to be afraid
of.  When I die, I'll see them all again."  She fingered a little
cross at her neck.  "But Mulder's in hell.  And that is something
to be afraid of."  She closed her eyes.  "Please tell me he's going
to get better.  Please tell me you know what you're doing."
     Emm took a deep breath, attempted to answer Dana without
sounding condescending.  "Mulder's always going to take the blame
for his sister's disappearance."
     Scully nodded, opened her eyes.  
     "The rest is simply going to take time."  Emm relaxed her
shoulders.  "No miracles, no easy answers.  I think a lot of times
we want easy answers.  Mulder's been like this for a very long
time.  He's been doing very well too."
     "So what are you going to do?"
     "Well, I didn't plan on Mulder's belief in his blame to be so
deep or so well-seated. I would prefer to get him past that point
before I start new coping strategies, but when the belief system is
so. . .ingrained, I don't know if I can.  I probably can't."  Emm
frowned, recapping all the arguments that swirled in her mind. 
"Some things aren't going to change.  But this whole system he's
got set up of blaming himself for the all the things that go wrong.
. .it's going to keep backfiring on him, keep causing him distress.
     "I would like for you to keep a journal from now on.  Just
keep track of the day to day events, what's happening. . .you can
give it to Mulder to take to some sessions.  Others I want you to
sit in on."
     "And we'll pick apart what happened."
     "No.  Mulder will pick apart what happens and try to find new
ways of handling problems,"  Emm replied. "My only task, and yours,
is when he starts down a path that leads to self-blame, to block
the path."
     "What if he *can't* think of new patterns?"
     "Mulder's IQ is above genius.  He can if he lets himself."
     "And letting himself, that goes back to his childhood."
     "He's starting to relax the stranglehold grip he has on his
interpretation of events.  Just barely.  Take some comfort in
that."
     
     

__________________________________________________     




     "I got a letter back today." Emm was deliberately casual in
her words.  "I wrote to Dr. Clayton.  You said that was the
therapist your mother saw."
     Mulder glanced at Emm, surprised.
     "You did give me permission to research your background."
     "Why'd you write to him?"
     "To see what he'd say about my calling your mother.  I'm
curious about what she remembers from your infancy, what she admits
to."
     Mulder considered this, shrugged.  "What did he say?"
     "He said he thought it would be all right."
     "Oh."  Mulder nodded.
     "What do you remember about being a baby?" Emm prodded.
     "I didn't sleep very much, not like they wanted me to. And
there were always fights about it."
     "Fights?"  Emm asked.
     "Mom would stay up with me, then Dad would come in and put me
in my crib and I would cry."  Mulder frowned.  "And then they would
argue a little.  And I would sit in my crib.  It was scary at
night.  When I was about a year old I figured out how to get out of
my crib.  Dad would spank me and put me back in."
     "So you stopped?"
     "No.  I stayed in my room and slept on the floor.  He didn't
check on me in the morning and mom never told him."  Mulder
shrugged.
     "Anything else?"
     Thoughts.  "I was a difficult baby.  Mom was so happy with
Sam.  She'd laugh when I came in from school and say that if
she'd known not all babies were like me she'd've had another
sooner."
     Emm had a curious thought.  
     "When did you start reading?"
     "Two, nearly three.  I'd broken a couple of ribs and the
doctor wanted me in bed and I was bored, so Dad taught me how to
read.  He brought home these new basal readers they had at the
university kindergarten and showed me.  So then he could just bring
home sacks of picture books and I'd be busy reading."
     "What happened to your ribs?"

     Mulder shrugged.  
     "Did your dad break your ribs?"
     "I guess so."  Mulder stared at something else.  "I thought
this was about talking to my mom about my temperament as a baby.
     "We've been through this issue before," Emm said sharply. 
"Did you break your ribs or did someone else break them?"
     "We just discussed that."
     "Then you tell me."
     Mulder stared at Emm.  "This is really pointless."
     "Humour me."
     "My dad broke my ribs."
     "How did he break your ribs?"
     Mulder shrugged.  "He kicked me."
     "Do you remember that?"
     "Kinda. . .yeah.  I do."
     "Okay.  So you were pretty much a genius in the making even as
a baby?"
     Mulder shrugged.  "I always got the impression I was kind of
a pain."
     "A pain?"  Emm asked.  "You weren't sleeping very much,
figured out how to get out of your crib before one year, which
indicates that you were walking and climbing well before one year,
and you have clear memories before one year. . .sounds impressive
to me. . .then you learn how to read when you're two." 
     He shrugged.  "It sounds like I was a difficult baby."
     Emm frowned, keeping back the most obvious thing--how could
any loving, caring parent kick a two year old in the ribs?  She'd
had frustrated parents tell her about losing it, shaking their
babies or hitting them.  Kicking a baby in the ribs didn't sound
like frustration, it sounded like cruelty.  "Even when you were a
baby, did your mom ever try to protect you from your dad?"
     "I don't remember.  Dad brought home Narnia when I was nearly
three.  It took me forever to read it."  Mulder spoke in a low,
careful tone.  
     Emm stilled herself to listen.  "We would read it together in
the evening.  He'd read some and then me.  There were these people
that wanted me put into a home for emotionally disturbed children,
but Momma and Daddy fought it. And then they said that Momma and
Daddy hurt me.   There was a hearing about me.  And we'd sit and
read together and then the judge said I was normal and that Dad
seemed loving and caring." Mulder looked up, face draining of
color.  "I read Narnia.  It's cold in Narnia."
     His eyes were wide, dilated.  He wasn't looking at Emm
anymore, wasn't talking to her.
     "It's cold in Narnia and you have to push all the way through
everything else, but then when you're there, the faun comes for you
unless the queen has turned him into stone, and if she did the
beaver comes and takes you in for dinner.  It's cold in Narnia, but
all the animals love you."
     "Including Bear?"
     "Bear comes sometimes, but he gets honey on his paws and it
embarrasses him, but that's the way bears are."  
     Emm was cautious in her movements forward, sitting on the edge
of her chair now.  He had self-hypnotized.  She'd accepted the
trance states, accepted that, but not. . .not this.  Not some
private world he could go to to escape. . .
     "Do you go to Narnia?"  Thank God for an undergraduate advisor
who made her take Kiddie Lit.  "Do you go to Narnia when your Dad
hits you?"
     The nod was barely perceptible.  "I go to Narnia and when I
wake up it's over and Dad's being nice."
     "Do you ever go there any other times?"
     "No.  Yes.  Not often.  Almost never.  Narnia's where we hid
from Dad."
     "If you want to,"  Emm kept her voice terribly soft, "you can
close your eyes and go to sleep and when you wake up you don't have
to know you know about Narnia.  Do you want to remember Narnia?"
     "Narnia's a special place.  I don't think about it until he
hurts me."
     "Do you think about it when someone else hurts you?"
     He shook his head.  
     "Okay.  Do you want to forget?"
     A nod.
     "You know how to do that?"
     Another nod.  "I push into the wardrobe and just stand in the
coats and then I fall asleep."
     "Okay."  Mulder closed his eyes.  
     Emm waited until his breathing was deep and regular, nervously
swallowed and picked up her phone.


     "You've been asleep for a few minutes."  Emm's voice was
cheerful.
     Mulder frowned.  His head hurt.  "What happened?"
     "You. . .ran into some problems and self-hypnotized to avoid,
so I suggested you go to sleep and you did."
     He nodded.  "Sorry."
     "That's okay.  ClareRidge has openings."
     Mulder's frown deepened.  "Excuse me?"
     "I think we need to hospitalize you," Emm said softly.
     Mulder blinked a couple of times. "Emm, are we both working on
the same wavelength?"
     "No," Emm replied sadly.  "We're not.  I think you need some
time in a structured environment where it's okay if you lose your
temper or self-hypnotize.  Where you can feel safe."
     "What did I say?" Mulder asked, frowning.  
     "You just told me some things about when your father beat
you," Emm replied, honestly.  
     "I cannot be hospitalized," Mulder replied.  "If I do that, I
lose my career.  Can you prove involuntary?"
     "No."
     "Then I'm sorry, but I can't afford anything like that.  I
know you're only trying to do what's best, but I cannot afford that
option."
     Emm nodded.  It had been a vague hope at best.  "I'm scared
of you staying by yourself.  Mulder, if you have problems and
you're alone, my options are fairly limited.  If you have problems
and Scully's there, her options are fairly broad."
     "I hared out in your office," Mulder said, unblinking, staring
hard at the therapist.
     "Yes."  Emm nodded.  "It wasn't a frightening hare-out, but
you did fall into that broad category of `losing it'.  It won't
look good if you repeat that behavior at work."
     Mulder grinned.  "Add to the legend," he replied.
     Emm did not ask him if he would stay with Scully.

===========================================================================

From: amperage@aol.com (Amperage)
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: Part II of Therapy (4 of 8)
Date: 20 Jul 1995 15:03:19 -0400


Therapy II, part 4
by Amperage@AOL.com

All characters which are property of the X-files were used without
permission. 

     It took the paralegal from Colbertson, where Emm got her
legal work done, nearly an hour, but she got the clerk of
court to fax her the document, and then the document was faxed to
Emm.  Having Mulder's permission for all this had greased the
skids, but when Emm started reading the blurred pages, she wondered
just how confidential these records were.  Of course, the paralegal
was Wilson and Wilson could get blood out of those dead for 10,000
years.
     An initial interview conducted in the hospital.  Child overly
mature.  Ramblings about a meadow.  "Andrew Henry's Meadow," Emm
whispered to herself.  She'd had that book, had dragged it around
with her, held it to her chest and prayed that she could go to that
meadow, but she would never return home like the stupid children in
the book.  Screamed when picked up.  In the hospital four days from
a fall out of tree that resulted in cracked ribs.  
     Yeah right, he fell out of a tree.
     Screamed when picked up.  Would not eat.  Would not sleep. 
Distrustful of strangers.  Sentences that made no sense. The
hospital social worker was very young.  Emm saw that, or the
sentences Mulder gave her would have made sense. 
     "I'm going to the Meadow and Andrew Henry will let me live
there," he'd said.  Well, if the girl had bothered to read
Mulder's book, she'd know that this wasn't just a rambling.  This
was a wish, a prayer.  Emm was fairly certain she'd wished the same
thing once. 
     New notation, the Feds had a new program called 1-2-3, a live
in program for disturbed children.  They started proceedings to
take Fox on the grounds of physical battery.  The Mulders fought. 
A local family court judge gave custody to the Feds.  A Federal
court overturned the ruling.  The judge's name caught Emm's eye, as
she read over the document.  She frowned, wrote the name down.  The
judge had commented that:

          Fox is clearly neither abused nor disturbed to judge by
     his actions in this courtroom.  I have rarely seen such an
     evident father-son bond and such clear affection as I have  
     witnessed between these two.  Fox is also extremely bright. 
     If any  modifications are necessary, it would be that his
     parents should be allowed to enroll him in school early, or
     find some program to help them encourage this young genius.

What the hell jurisdiction did the Feds have in this case?  Child
custody and child abuse was a state issue, not a federal issue. 
Why did the Mulders go through a Federal court to get their son
back?  Something wasn't right here.  Something just wasn't right.

The note came back from Wilson in a surprisingly short amount of
time.
          "Judge Louis Watson was brutally murdered when he
     surprised a would be burglar.  Nothing of importance was taken
     from his home and his wife, standing beside him, was merely
     shaken.  The burglar cut Watson across the throat, severing
     his arteries."
     
     Emm stared at the note Wilson had sent her, a quote from some
Boston Paper in the fall of 1964, looked up. Kay stared at her
across the appointment window, pursed her lips and turned back to
the phones.  "This is all Wilson said?"
     Kay nodded, her bleach-blonde hair moving not an inch.  
     "Thank you, Kay."  Emm put the note in her pocket.  

     What was 1-2-3?  Emm was certain she'd never heard of it.
     
     She got the call when she was, for once, actually doing
research--collating files from her children, reviewing cases.
     "Emm, this is Greg.  Martha said you were looking for info on
a Federal program from back in the 60's?"  Greg Markus was so old
his patients wanted to play connect the liver spots.  But he was
good, for all his dotteryness.  Very good.  
     "Yeah.  I have an adult patient.  Abuse victim."
     "Bad?"
     "Uh. . .yeah.  If I can get him where he doesn't hurt himself,
I'll be happy."
     "How can you stand those cases?"
     "Somebody has to."
     "But not *you*."
     "Greg, do you really have time for this?"
     A laugh.  "Not really.  What do you need?"
     "Federal program called 1-2-3.  1965.  Live-in program for
emotionally disturbed children.  My patient was, is, a genius with
eidetic memory."
     "I don't remember any program called 1-2-3. . .and I did work
with disturbed children at the time. . .I tell you what, if my
thinking cap gets jammed, I'll call you back."
     Emm frowned.  She remembered the expression.  Was certain it
didn't mean remembering.  "Okay.  Thanks Greg."
     "Don't mention it.  Listen, the gang from Oak Hill are coming
to my house tonight.  Why don't you join us and take off your
thinking cap?"
     Okay.  Emm wasn't an idiot. "What deluge it with some beer and
just let it fall off?"
     "That's the ticket.  Grace would love to see you again."
     "You still live in that obscenely expensive house downtown?"
     "You got it."
     "I'll be there with bells."


     And she was.  And several old friends were already there,
drinking and laughing and playing volleyball out on Greg's front
lawn.
     Greg was in his study.  "I couldn't talk over the phone," he
told her after Kelly, his daughter, ushered Emm in.
     Emm blinked.  "Excuse me?"
     "I was involved with 1-2-3 for nearly a year.  It was a top
secret government project and the only mistake I ever really made
in my career."  Greg gestured to a chair.  "I thought it was a
program to investigate the physical problems of disturbed
children.  It was, in fact, a testing ground for abused children."
     Emm leaned back in her chair.  "Battered children."
     "Yes.  Physical battery and sexual battery.  We were supposed
to watch and report on the children's behavior when introduced to
a variety of stimuli."  Greg closed his eyes.  "You're pretty open
minded about the UFO thing."
     Emm nodded.  "I see abduction cases every blue moon.  It's not
my practice and I don't advertise, but occasionally one comes in
and I don't say they're crazy, basically.  I've seen some cases. .
.the only way I can. . .explain what's happened to the kids. . .is
abduction."
     "We had four children we were told were abductees.  One of
them came in for oh. . .a couple of months, I'd say. . . and then
was taken out.  I suspect it was your patient.  Very, very bright."
     "Wait a minute.  Abductee?"  Emm frowned.  "I knew there was
some sort of. . .alien influence, or something. . . but that was
supposed to be his sister."
     Greg shrugged.  "The child had eidetic memory.  Dark hair and
eyes.  Father was an academic."
     "That sounds like my patient."
     "Physical battery by the father?"
     Emm nodded.  
     "Several abduction experiences."
     "I don't have any record of any abduction experiences," Emm
replied, took a deep breath.  "What happened?"
     "He was one of the worst cases there.  We had him in isolation
until the parents got custody--he was three, and we had someone
watch him constantly; he was in a room with padded walls.  He had
severe flashbacks to something--I'm not sure what, I'm not sure I
wanted to know."  Greg's eyebrows knitted into two sharp arcs. 
"And then we let Momma come in for a visit and she tells him to
dream about going someplace special and it'll all be okay, that if
he thinks about his special place nothing can hurt him.  And the
kid. . ."  Greg shook his head.  
     Emm swallowed.  She felt physically ill at this point. "That's
my patient," she whispered.
     Greg stared at her.  "Is he long term?"
     Emm frowned.  
     "Is he institutionalized or is he in and out?"
     "No."  Emm smiled, let some of the tension slip out of her. 
"No, he's an FBI agent."  
     Greg did not return the smile.  "The child I saw was never
going to be normal," he said quietly.  "If you're trying to make
him normal, give it up.  He's too severely damaged.  His psyche
never had a chance at peace."
     "Neither did mine," Emm reminded him, unflinchingly.
     "And you're unmarried with, what is it now, 3 cats?"
     "Four."
     "Four cats," Greg continued, "and your entire life revolves
around treating abuse and PTSD cases.  You learned to cope, but
you're not normal."
     "What is normal?" Emm asked, eyes glittering.  "Is normal a
house, a spouse, some kiddies?  I thought we weren't aiming for
normal, but for happy."
     "Are you happy?"
     Emm smiled.  "I wish I hadn't given up my sibs.  I do wish
that.  I'd like to know where Lacey and Zeke and Thom and Carrie
are.  But that's really the only regret."  She shrugged.  "I'm
mostly happy."
     Greg closed his eyes.  "Whenever I despair that as a group
humans are too fragile I look at people like you," he said
quietly.  "I'll see what I can find out about the program." 

===========================================================================

From: amperage@aol.com (Amperage)
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: Part II of Therapy (5 of 8)
Date: 20 Jul 1995 15:03:24 -0400


Therapy II, part 5
by Amperage@ AOL.com

Standard disclaimed about stealing someone else's stuff should be
inserted here.  


  Emm finished brushing her teeth, spit.  Check the mirror.  Not
bad at all.  Decent to look at.  Her bleach splattered Boston
College tee wasn't a turn on, but then only the cats would ever see
it and they judged Emm on how much cheek scratching they got.  She
wandered back into the bedroom, grabbed the remote off the tv. 
Grey was already curled up on the bed, his head stretched against
the pillow.  Only cat Emm had ever seen who did not regard pillows
as beds.  She pulled down the covers on her side, frowned at the
long envelope tucked neatly in between the sheets.



     Dear Dr. Harris:
     Please excuse the method in which I have chosen to communicate
with you.  I have had other forms of communication breached, but a
simple letter, sealed with wax and entrusted to no one but the
recipient is rarely violated.

     As of the current date, all therapy files on Fox Mulder
indicate that very little of an intrusive nature has occurred while
he has been in therapy in the past.  I believe, given my
observations of Agent Mulder's recent behavior, that this is not
the case in Mulder's current therapeutic relationship with you, and
that he is finally being forced to face his demons. 

     While officially, the Bureau's stance is positive on this
issue, I must tell you that I am under great pressure from powers
above me to thwart the therapeutic situation Mulder has been placed
in.  Certain persons would prefer it if "Spooky" Mulder never got
better, never worked past his guilt and self-doubt because these
two things have made him a useful tool for them in the past and
will continue to make him a tool in the future--but only if he does
not learn new patterns of behavior.  Also, there is a
superstitious belief among many in the Bureau that some agents'
abilities stem from differing forms of mental illness. i.e.- Mulder
is so good because he is crazy.  

     I wish that circumstances had brought Agent Mulder to you two
years ago.  At that time, the powers that be were focused on
removing the annoyance of Fox Mulder.  For this reason he was
paired with Special Agent Dana Scully, who was known to be
excruciatingly methodical.  Leaves of absence were highly
recommended to him, and he was encouraged to resign from the
Bureau.  A hearing was even held to remove him from the FBI. 
Mulder had made certain friends in congress, however, and retained
his job. A later hearing was held to close the X-files.  That also
was not done, although, later, *I* was forced to close the X-files.
     Even within the past year the situation has wavered and I have
been forced, by Agent Mulder's actions, to bring him up on charges,
with full approval of my superiors.

     At this point in time, however, for reasons which I cannot
explain to you, Mulder is not to be removed.  I am myself to blame
for part of this, and there are times I feel guilt over this.  Were
Mulder out of the Bureau he and Agent Scully would not have
encountered certain dangerous, life-threatening situations.

   It is because of the pressure I am under from these unnamed
parties that I must caution you in your work with Agent Mulder.  I
cannot do anything for Mulder that would result in any official
documentation.  I cannot give him time for a leave of absence, nor
can I officially restrict his duties.  Regulations require that
every agent carry a sidearm.  If I were to take Mulder's weapon I
would have to make some justification for it in his record.  I
cannot even ask him to voluntarily give the piece to Agent Scully,
for this also would require some documentation and any
documentation would incur a covert investigation, which would
result in either Mulder's termination on full psychiatric
disability or the termination of therapy with you.  I suspect, at
this point, that the result would be the latter.  
     I will continue, as I can, to see that no one with an interest
in Mulder's usefulness as a tool discovers that Agent Mulder's
therapy is any more successful than his other encounters with FBI
mandated therapy have been.  However, you must take appropriate
precautions as well.  I realize this must sound to you like
paranoia, but I would rather be paranoid and see Mulder improve
than be careless and see you be killed or discredited.  If you need
more time with Mulder, please call me and I will find an excuse for
the more intensive therapy sessions that will indicate to any who
might be watching that Mulder is not responding to therapy.  If he
becomes violent or destructive do not hesitate to call me rather
than 911. Please do not change his DSM-IV diagnosis, and please do
not record his sessions.  Keep your notes to yourself and send
nothing regarding his case to your dictation staff.  

     Mulder does not know of the interest his therapy has stirred
up and I would appreciate it if you do not inform him.  If you wish
to verify my statements, you may show this letter to Agent Scully. 
But Agent Mulder does not know and I believe that you will
understand why he has not been informed.  

     Thank you for taking the time and energy this work must entail
to help him.  Please destroy this message after you have finished
with it.

Sincerely yours,



Walter F. Skinner


Emm finished reading, turned her head to stare at Grey.  Swallowed.
Mulder might hurt her, but he would not kill her. Someone else
might.  She did not doubt Skinner.  Not at all.  She considered the
smooth paper, considered getting out of this one.  She had plenty
of excuses.  Mulder had guessed about her abuse. She had
unrealistic expectations of Mulder.  She got too emotionally
involved in adult cases.  She was scared right now, lying against
the smooth cotton sheets, listening to the sounds of a
forgettable sitcom, of canned laughter and inane jokes.  She was
scared as she had not been since college, since her senior year
when a man had followed her around campus, when he had started
calling her, when she had realized that the man was her father and
that he wanted revenge because she had ruined his life.
     Emm sat a moment, staring without seeing, one hand resting on
Grey's massive head.  She had bought a gun when she was in college.
She had gotten a restraining order.  She had refused to go anywhere
without friends along.  She had purchased her first answering
machine--at the time, a big expense for a poor state ward on
Scholarship and grants.  She hadn't given in or given up.  She
would not give up this time, especially now, when giving up would
be giving up on someone else, someone who needed her.
     
----------------------------------



     "Mrs. Mulder?  Hi, this is Dr. Emmaline Harris."
     "Hello.  Dr. Clayton said you were Fox's therapist.  What's
wrong?"
     "Well, he's had some job stress."  Emm tapped her pen against
the desk blotter, stared at a doodle she'd done of a rag doll. 
"And some of his PTSD symptoms were getting worse."  They'd gone
over what Mulder minded her telling his mother and what he didn't
mind. "So we decided it might be a good idea for Mulder to go back
into therapy."
     "Oh.  How bad are his nightmares?"
     "Well, the nightmares aren't one of the main problems right
now.  Umm . . .listen, Mulder and I have been discussing his early
childhood.  Did Dr. Clayton explain what I wanted to know about
that?"
     "Well, yes, he did.  I don't know.  Fox was extremely bright."
     "I know that. Mulder told me about how he would get out of his
crib."
     A laugh.  "It drove Bill crazy.  This little bitty thing,
hanging onto the bars, sliding down.  He could have killed himself,
but try telling that to Fox, even at that age."
     "Mulder says his dad spanked him and put him back in."
     "We had to stop him before he cracked his skull open."  
     Emm nodded.  Uh-huh.  Okay.  Moving on.  "How many times was
Mulder in the hospital when he was a child?"
     "I don't know. . .is. . .Fox is remembering that Bill hit him,
isn't he?"
     Emm paused, unsure how to answer, how far Mulder had given her
leave to answer.  "Yes ma'am," she replied simply.  "He is."
     There was dead silence on the other end.  "Bill loved Fox.  He
just. . .Bill's dad got mad and hit him, and Bill. . .that was the
way he knew.  Bill loved Fox though.  I know it must not sound like
that.  Bill really did love him.  They used to sit together and
Bill would read to him for hours.  And work on models.  Bill is. .
Bill was a historian, you know?  He liked making models of planes
and ships and famous battles.  Dioramas.  They'd work for months on
some, making them look lifelike.  I didn't know. . .I was. . .Bill
didn't mean to hurt him. . .and he always made it up to him.  I
didn't ever talk about it back then.  Dr. Clayton and I have worked
a long time. . ."  Her voice trailed.  "I. . .dear, people aren't
born hitting or pretending."
     "I know.  I work with battered children, and sometimes I work
with their parents.  Usually the parents were battered too," Emm
said.  "And they want to be good parents.  They really do.  But no
one ever showed them what a good parent is."
     Silence.  "My father had my mother put away for trying to
divorce him.  I guess he didn't want to pay alimony or child
support.  Bill said he didn't want my mother talking in court about
what she would've known.  My mother died in a mental hospital. 
Someone stabbed her with some scissors.  My dad hit me.  Just hit
me and laughed about it. And sometimes he. . .well, Bill was so
gentle about it when we got married. . .he loved me so much he was
willing to. . .he taught me different, but I was a girl and my
father. . ."
     "It's okay," Emm whispered softly.  "I understand."  And she
did.  More than this woman could ever guess.
     "Thank you."  The answer was soft with gratitude.  "My father.
. . he liked hurting people.  It was . . .he hit people for fun. 
You know?  He just liked seeing people be hurt.  The last time I
saw him I was expecting Fox.  He'd been arrested on murder charges.
Killed a man who double crossed him on a boat deal.  I know he
killed a couple of other people before they caught him on that one.
They killed him in prison.  He told me that I was. . .I was crazy
just like my mother and that he knew my child would grow up to be
just as mean as he was.  It used to scare me, when Fox would do
something wrong.  I was scared he'd be like my father."
     Emm swallowed, forced the emotion out of her voice. "Did you
think Fox killed Samantha?"
     Dead silence.  "Bill and I. . .we never accused him of that. 
He. . .I knew he wouldn't. . .but he was there, and he didn't do
anything."
     Emm swallowed, let silence accumulate between them like a
fine, sharp dust.  When she spoke again, it was on another topic.
     "When Mulder was a child, did he ever. . .go into like a
trance?  Did you ever ask him to pretend he was somewhere else?"
     "That's what I used to do when my father hit me.  Whenever
things were unpleasant, that's how I told him to handle it.  Of
course.  You think about nice things. . .like the mountains, Bill
took me to the mountains for our vacations.  Or someplace special,
or something you like doing.  I loved to go shopping.  I'd think
about a new dress."
     "Did Mulder, was he ever, lost in his pretends?"
     A pause.  "Sometimes.  It did scare me how deep inside he
could go, but he always came back."
      "He did kill her."  The voice was very soft.  Emm recognized
tears.  
     "Ma'am?"
     "I try not to think about it.  First she disappeared.  I. .
.and then this girl, it was Samantha. . .I just couldn't think. .
.and she went with Fox.  She said she had something important to do
with Fox and then Bill came to my house and he said. . ." A choking
sob.  "And he said that Fox traded Sam for this other woman and she
was killed.  Sam. . ."  Sobs.  
     "He came home three weeks later.  He had that Irish woman with
him. . .he said she was there because he wasn't allowed to drive.
He'd nearly been killed trying to find Sam.  He did look sick.  He
was using a cane and he was all bundled up, even though it wasn't
particularly cold that day.
     "But Sam was dead, Bill said.  And Fox said she wasn't.  That
the girl we saw was someone made to look like Sam, to hurt him. .
.I don't know what to believe.  I think sometimes, Fox is crazy. .
.he's gone crazy. . .the kind of crazy my father was and no one
knows it.  Did Fox kill Sam?"
     Emm breathed deeply.  "No ma'am."  She had very little idea
what this woman was talking about, some, but very little.  "No
ma'am.  She wasn't Samantha.  The body wasn't Fox Mulder's sister. 
They know that.  She lied to you all to get Fox to help her." 
     "Fox was telling the truth?"
     "Yes ma'am."
     "What about. . .first they said maybe Fox killed Bill. . .and
then they. . .they said he didn't. . .I think, maybe he did. .
.maybe he got into a fight.  They used to argue. Argue so loud. .
."
     "Mrs. Mulder.  He didn't.  I know he didn't.  They proved that
one conclusively.  It was someone else's gun.  Mulder didn't do it.
He was trying to save his father."  Emm knew a little more about
this one, from friends and from the news. "When they shot your
husband, Mulder was very sick.  He didn't know he should have
stayed in the house.  He didn't know what he was doing."
     The sobs were louder now, but better sobs.  Sobs that
expressed a kind of relief.  Emm waited for her to calm down.  
     "Bill. . .Bill thought Fox was to blame for everything."
     "I know."
     "He always loved Fox.  Always.  I would always love my
children.  Bill was the one who was proud of Fox."
     "I know.  I know you loved him."  Emm took a deep breath.  Get
this question out before the woman wasn't able to answer any more
questions.
     "When Fox was real little, he was hospitalized with broken
ribs.  Do you remember that?"
     "I. . .no.  I don't."
     "He was taken from you and placed in a federal program called
1-2-3?"
     "No.  I think you must have someone else."  The voice was
upset.
     "Do you know anything about that program?"
     "I said I didn't know anything."  Frantic now.  And a loud
click.  
 
===========================================================================

From: amperage@aol.com (Amperage)
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: Part II of Therapy (6 of 8)
Date: 20 Jul 1995 15:03:28 -0400


Therapy II, part 6
by Amperage@AOL.Com

All characters from Fox's the X-Files, a 10-13 production, created
by Chris Carter, were used without permission.

   A really shitty morning.  Emm closed her eyes, considered the
list of associates, who their supervisors were, looked back at the
five evaluations sitting on her desk.  Supposedly, she should have
a meeting with the supervisors, then talk to each of the people
she was assigning a case.  Uh-huh.  What happened was that Emm
stuck a name on the manilla folder with a blue post-it and unless
someone didn't like what she did, it stayed as it was.  Emm wanted
to keep all the cases for herself.  She kept none of them, unless
the patient was FUBARed and she knew it.  The successes were for
other people.  
     "Dr. Harris?"  May was polite this morning.  Interesting.
     "Yes, May?" 
     "Dr. Scully is on line 4."
     "Thank you."
     Emm flicked the intercom off, picked up the handset.  "Dana?"
     "Emm?  Emm.  Thank God.  Listen, I don't know what to do. 
Mulder's. . .he came in this morning.  He hasn't shaved or
showered.  I don't know how he drove here by himself."
     "Describe his behavior more clearly."  Oh shit.
     "Umm. . .he's nervous.  He's been starting at everything.  He
can't concentrate, not even enough to keep a conversation going. .
.I tried to call you from the office, but he ripped the phone out
of the wall, jack and all.  I'm in the toilet."
     Emm closed her eyes and swallowed.  "Is he violent or so
disoriented that we can justify committal?"
     "No.  But he doesn't need to be at work.  He won't go home. 
We've already had that fight once."
     "Okay.  Go tell Skinner."
     "What? Emm, you've got to be joking."
     "I'm not.  I've had. . .words with Director Skinner."  Words? 
A letter left on your pillow while you're brushing your teeth does
not constitute words.  Well, Dana Scully didn't know that.
     "When can you be here?"
     "I don't know."
     "Okay. My 9:30 is probably in the waiting room.  I don't have
a 10 o'clock and I'll get May to cancel everything through lunch. 
You just get him down here."
     "What if he won't go?"
     "Find out what happened to put him in this state.  With a
little more knowledge you may be able to hospitalize.  This sounds
like. . ."
     "Classic PTSD, yeah."  Scully's voice was frustrated.
     "Go talk to Skinner.  I think he can get Mulder here."
     "All right."
     
     The waiting room was full of small children. Mulder stared at
his partner balefully, went to the corner to stand, staring.  He
didn't think he could sit in a chair very long.  Didn't think he
could stand the smell of young children, of milk and cookies and
soap.
     

     *Momma?  Mom's lap was too small. Dad took him on the
ferry.  Bear.  Rip and Rip and Rip and Bear.  Eggshells and peas
and carrots and Bear.  Bears get honey on their paws, they can't
help it, it's just the way Bears are.  Mom.  Momma fix Bear. 
Strong hands, and the legs and arms and head buried under kleenex
and paper and fat scraps.  Momma?*

     "Come on."  Scully's hand on his arm.  Mulder started, jerked
hard away, staring at her distrustfully.
     His eyes were cloudy.  Oh God.  She should have taken him to
the hospital. Oh God. 
     "Emm's here," she said gently.
     Mulder stared at her a moment.  Nodded.

     Emm's room was quiet.  Mulder took his spot on the couch,
grabbed a pillow to wrap around his middle.  Emm came in with two
mugs.  

     
     Mulder's eyes were tracking her every move distrustfully. 
Despite that, he was not *here*, not completely.   Emm moved
slowly, deliberately, put Mulder's coffee on the table in front of
him, handed Scully hers.  
     "What happened?" Emm asked Scully, eyes not leaving Mulder.
     "I went back, tried to reason with Mulder. . .He wasn't very
reasonable."
     Mulder's mouth curved into a bitter smile. He stared at a far
point on the floor.
     "I threatened to get Skinner."  Scully's voice caught.  "I
don't like this.  I don't like this at all."
     Mulder started, looked at Scully, questioning.  
     "Anyway. . ."  Scully swallowed.  "He agreed to come here,
finally."
     Mulder considered Emm levelly.  "Mom told me I killed Sam," 
he told her in a flat voice.
     Emm took a deep breath.  The impact in her gut was worse than
a blow.  
     Scully was staring at Mulder, face draining of color.  
     "When did your mom tell you this?"
     "Last night."
     Oh God, this was *her* fault.  God, I'm so sorry.  
     "Is that what she told you?  That you killed Sam?"
     Mulder closed his eyes.  "She put Bear in the garbage and sent
me to my room."
     Emm mentally reviewed his file.  "After your Dad tore Bear up,
she put it in the garbage?  I thought you went to the hospital."
     "After the hospital.  I got Bear off the stairs."
     Emm swallowed, kept her eyes open, although she desperately
wanted to close them and pray as Scully was doing.
     Mulder rubbed his face.  "Emm.  I killed her.  I know I did. 
I killed Duane Barry.  I've nearly gotten Scully killed five or six
times."
     "Okay. I want to know what you remember your mother telling
you last night."
     Mulder flung the pillow away absently, sat forward, elbows on
his knees.  He took a sip of coffee, tried to pull it together. 
"Umm. . ."  His voice was dry, dispassionate.  He made a fist of
one hand, put it against his forehead, looked at the floor between
his legs a moment.  "She called and she'd been crying.  She told me
what she told you about my grandfather."
     "You'd never heard about your grandfather?"
     Mulder's head rolled no against his fist.  "Mom just said he
died before I was born and that they'd had a fight.  No big deal. 
He was a fisherman."
     "Have you told Scully?"
     Mulder looked up, swallowed.
     "Scully needs to know," Emm said gently.  "She doesn't know
why you're upset."
       "My grandfather was a psychopath.  He beat up my mom when
she was growing up and he raped her.  When Mom was pregnant
with me he got the death penalty for killing someone.  He cursed
her womb and said I'd be just like him."
     Scully's face grew pale.  "Mulder you're not. . .Mulder,
you're not like that though."
     "I'm not?"  Mulder smiled distantly.  "I can get into their
minds so easily.  It's like slipping into a second skin.  So easy
to understand them and to know."
     "What did your mom say about Samantha?"  Emm turned the
conversation.
     A deep breath. "She wanted to apologize, because she'd always.
. .wondered. . .if I did it, and now she didn't think I did."
     "So why would you think that you'd done it?"
     Mulder closed his eyes.  "I did it."
     "Do you remember doing it?"
     "I don't remember anything.  The aliens were just. . .stories.
I used to tell Sam spooky stories.  She pissed me off so bad
sometimes and she never got hit and she got whatever she wanted. .
."
     Emm swallowed, opened her mouth.   
     "You put together the X file on Samantha."  Scully's voice was
sharp, beating Emm to speech.  "And you included the police
report."
     "So?"
     "So, in the time you were catatonic, they and the FBI
explored the possibility that you'd killed your sister.  You were
big for a 12 year old and a genius, but their conclusion was that
there was no way in *hell* that you killed Samantha.  You were
barefoot and your feet weren't dirty.  There weren't any places
close enough for you to have disposed of the body.  There was the
gun, but all the bullets were still in it.  No blood, nothing. 
Haven't you ever bothered to read that report?  You included it in
your file."
     "They were working on the assumption that it might have been
a crime of passion.  What if I planned it?"  Mulder's voice was
cold, logical.
     "Oh.  You planned it?"  Scully's retort was acid.  "Why?  She
borrow your baseball mitt and forget to return it?  She borrow your
Knicks jersey and ruin it at a slumber party?  So you decided to
off her?  Poisoned her Cocoa Puffs?"
     "Sam hated Cocoa Puffs.  I killed her."
     Scully closed her eyes.  "How?"
     "I don't know."  Mulder nodded to himself.  "But I must have. 
No little green men."
     Scully opened her mouth.  Emm shook her head, scribbled a note
on her legal pad.  "We need to get his gun and hospitalize."
     Mulder saw the paper, grabbed it, knocking the coffee cup
over.  Emm clung to the paper.  "No."  Her voice was sharp.  "No."
     It tore.  Mulder got "get his g."   
     "You think I'm going to kill myself." It was not a question.
     Emm blinked.  Nodded.  
     They stared at one another.  "I made up memories."
     "Did you make up the memory of loving your sister? Did you
make up your love for Scully?  Did you make up how much it hurts
you when you can't solve a case and a little girl is still lost? 
Did you make up your anger and guilt when you realized you hadn't
saved Anna-Lisa?"  Emm's voice was sharp.  "Did you make up your
entire life?"
     Mulder just stared and wrapped his arms around his chest.
     "How long did you cry last night?"
     No response.  
     "Did you think about killing yourself?"
     Emm considered the pool of coffee spilling down onto her
carpet.  Well, Ian would be happy.  She'd need new carpet and that
would give the vultures an excuse to re-do her entire office in
some hideous Southwestern look.
     Mulder's eyes were closed.  Scully shifted in her chair and
his eyes flung open, terrified and began tracking something that
neither Emm nor Scully could see.  
     "Why didn't they take me?" he begged of someone who was not
there.  "Why didn't they take me instead?"
     Scully was grey, and her hands were shaking.
     Emm tried to get spit back into her mouth.  She was out of her
chair, trying to get close without falling into the coffee muck. 
"Mulder."  Soft, sotto voce.  "Mulder.  I want you to close your
eyes."
     His hands were shaking.  Emm took them in her own.  "Come on. 
Close your eyes.  I'm here and Scully's here.  No one can hurt
you."
     He complied, body going into shivers.  
     "Okay.  Take a deep breath.  Hold it for just a second."  This
would either relax him or release all the sobs Emm knew were inside
him.
     He held it and his face changed.  He was going to cry.  
     "Okay. Let it out."
     Mulder breathed through his mouth.  No tears.  
     "Okay, two more deep breaths.  You control them."  She watched
his face, watched the breaths.  In and hold.  Out.  In and hold. 
Out.  
     "Breathe a few more times. . ."
     Deep breaths.  
     "Open your eyes."
     His eyes opened.  He stared at her.  "What if I killed her?"
     "Then you'll move on.  But I don't think you did."  Emm
considered his tense face.  She wanted to tell him about 1-2-3. 
Not now.  
     "My memory's been so fucked up."  Mulder was lucid.  "I read
all those X-files before I saw Verber, and he used hypnosis, and
I've had so many flashbacks and hallucinations.  I get angry so
easily.  What if I just got mad at her one night?"
     "Then there would have been evidence."
     "What if I planned it?"
     "Do you honestly think you had it in you to plan it?"
     He was silent.
     "That's what I think too.  Mulder, you just don't have it in
you to kill someone like that.  Especially not someone you loved
the way you loved Sam."
     His eyes searched hers.  He wanted to believe that.  He really
wanted to, Emm saw, but there was the uncertainty.  
     "Okay.  I want to hospitalize you. . ."
     "NO!"  It was a strangled yell.  Mulder fought the grasp she
had on his hands.
     "Let me finish."  Emm let go.  "I want to, but I'm not.  If
you do some things for me."
     Mulder swallowed, stared at her.  "Like what?"
     "Like, you have to give Scully your gun and stay with her for
a while.  I decide the awhile this time.  You have to go to Dr.
Madani for some tranquilizers and take a few days of sick leave."
     Mulder stared at Emm, closed his eyes.  Nodded.  
     "Mulder, let's talk psychologist to psychologist.  How normal
is what you're going through?"
     "I don't . . ."  Mulder shook his head.
     "Okay.  Look.  Someone with PTSD over an incident which they
have a recovered memory of--and we both know that recovered
memories are usually full of flaws--is told by someone with strong
emotional ties that he may have been responsible for the incident. 
That memory isn't stable anyway.  Evidencing severe symptomology
under the conditions you describe. . .it's just going to happen. 
That's biological and we both know it.  Your brain changed in
response to the stressor.  No matter what work you and I do, you're
still going to have moments like this every so often.  You're
pretty lucky, actually."
     Mulder got the joke.  "What?  I only lose it in the presence
of UFO's or my mother's guilt trips?"
     "Well, yeah."  Emm shrugged. "I only lose it in the presence
of beer, so I screw guys who drink whiskey."
     Mulder grinned, shook his head.  "You're a sick puppy, Emm."
     "I know."  Emm sat on the couch.  "Gun, please." She extended
a hand.
     "I could have shot myself last night."  Mulder got it, handed
it to Emm, who handed it to Scully.
     "I'm glad you didn't," Scully said, taking the clip out.  
     "That you didn't shows strength," Emm added.  
     "So why take it now?"
     "Dana and I are overprotective little bitches, that's why."
     Mulder opened his mouth to speak, caught Scully's eye and
swallowed his return.  "I have to live with her,"  he muttered.

      Emm smiled.  "I don't want you alone," she said softly. 
"There are a couple of options.  I don't want Scully staying with
you all day either.  She has her own life.  I think a day hospital
would be good.  You go in, but you can go home at night."
     "No."  Mulder's voice was sharp.
     Emm sighed.  "You could also hire some kind of living
assistant.  I know some people."
     Scully nodded at this reccomendation.  Emm knew that she
wished they could convince Mulder of the day hospital, of some
place where there were things he could do that would help him, but
knew it was impossible and not worth the fight.  "Who is this
person?" Scully asked.  
     Emm frowned, went to her eletronic rolodex.  Names, names. 
Someone who would see the adult sitting before her, not treat him
as a stupid child.  "All right.  Karen Rhodes. She's 28, working on
a master's in psych, and she's done living assistant work for a
couple of people.  Finals have got to be over.  It's nearly June,
after all."  
     "Dana, let's forget this.  I'm going to be okay.  I just. .
.needed a little help. . ."  Mulder being reconcilitory. 
Interesting that he didn't even try Emm.  Emm's mouth curled in a
wry smile.  Like he was going to have better luck with Dana Scully
than with her. 
     His mouth did a quirky little pout thing, his eyes drooped. 
His cheekbones even fell just a little.  Eyebrows closing in, just
so, with a pull upwards at the top.  Oh God, if he'd been a puppy,
even Emm would have taken him home from the pound.
     "That isn't going to work today."  Emm bit her lip to keep
from smiling.  "We can call Karen or we can call the Cloister. 
Your pick."
     "She better be cute," Mulder growled.
     
     Emm got up, dialed.  Karen was in.  
     "No finals.  How much will I get paid?  Insurance or private?"
     "How do I know, you mercenary little creature?" Emm asked
exsaperated.  "What's the going rate?"
     "Well, do I go home at night or is it a 24 hour job?"
     "No.  Just daytimes.  7 to 7."
     "Oh gee.  That's daytimes?  Okay.  Hang on. . .can your
patient afford 80 dollars a day?"
     "Most likely."  
     "Okay.  That's 80 bucks private pay.  If it's insurance I want
10 bucks an hour.  Get whoever's going to be night time on the damn
phone."
     Emm put Karen on hold.  "She wants to talk to Scully.  Dana,
why don't you go down to the staff room and chat?"
     Mulder narrowed his eyes.  "That was real subtle."
     Emm smiled broadly. "Oh.  By the way, Karen is so crass as to
ask about her paycheck. . ."
     Mulder waved his hand.  Mumbled something about bills.
     "Mulder has a trust fund," his partner informed Emm.  "Great
Aunt Miranda set it up.  He can afford things you've never dreamed
of."
     "If we hadn't nearly died, Norway might have been fun." 
Mulder smiled.  
     Dana smiled back, relief settling into her face.  "Oh right. 
People in heavy fur coats, sounding like they have sinus trouble
and the smell of your vomit. . .Remind me not to go on a vacation
with you."  She left the room.  Mulder hissed after her.

     When Scully was gone, Emm moved back to her usual spot.
     "Okay.  You wanna' talk about Bear or Samantha?"
     "That was fast."
     "She won't be gone that long.  So which?"
     "Bear."  
     "Why do you think Bear came up?"
     "I don't know." Mulder closed his eyes.  
     "Why didn't you tell me your mother threw Bear away when you
went to her for help?"
     "I don't know.  I just didn't think about it."
     "But you knew she had?"
     "It was in tatters. . .she must have just thought it was
beyond repair."  Mulder closed his eyes.  He meant to say nothing
else.  The words tumbled out anyway.  "I got the pieces together
and all the stuffing and one of the eyes came off.  And I took it
to Momma.  And she. . .she made me put it in the garbage. . .I
couldn't.  I just froze.  Just stood there, so she grabbed him out
of my hands and threw him in.  Then she hit me for being a baby and
sent me to bed without my supper."  His arms were wrapped around
his middle.  He was grabbing the skin on his ribs, grabbing and
pulling and releasing.  "When she called it was like. . .I couldn't
breathe.  She was being so nice and crying and she didn't care what
I thought, just tried to make herself feel better and I'm tired and
she knows I'm in therapy, but it didn't matter."  The words were
coming faster and faster, threatening to be indecipherable.  "She
just wanted to get rid of her guilt.  I didn't know."  He closed
his eyes and let out a sob to raise the dead. "I swear, I didn't
know they thought that!  They thought I killed her.  I killed Sam!"
He closed his eyes, tried desparetly to keep in the sobs.  "I don't
know anymore.  Nothing is real."
     "I know," Emm quieted.  She wanted to move to the couch.  She
wanted to make things better.  Things were not better.  "I know."
     She felt, rather than heard Dana's presence at the door.
     "Do you want Scully?"
     Mulder grimaced.  His arms were around his chest, supporting
deep, agonizing breaths.  "Why did she tell me that?"
     "You already know why."  Emm's voice was soft, sad as she went
to the door, let Scully in.
     Mulder didn't want Scully touching him.  Just wanted to sit
and absorb what he knew.  What was true.  That his father wasn't
always bad and his mother wasn't always good. And he loved them
both.  

===========================================================================

From: amperage@aol.com (Amperage)
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: Part II of Therapy (7 of 8)
Date: 20 Jul 1995 15:03:33 -0400


Therapy II part 7
by Amperage@aol.com

Usual disclaimer to be place here.  (Can you tell I'm more than a
little tired of this.  Maybe they could just put a disclaimer on
the whole newsgroup. . .nah.  Too easy.)


     "How's it going?" Emm asked quietly the next morning.  
     Mulder shrugged.  "Your friend has a steady boyfriend.  And
I'm bored out of my skull."
     "It's seven a.m.  How did you manage to get bored that
quickly?"
     "I'm gifted, I guess."
     Emm sighed.  "Well, I've let you sluff off on your notebook
assignments.  Did you bring it?"
     Mulder winced.  "No.  It's at my apartment."
     "Okay.  I've got some paper.  What do *you* want to do today?"
     Mulder shrugged.  "I don't know."
     "Is there anything you'd *like* to do?"
     Mulder thought about it.  "I only have another day."
     "Mulder, don't get your hopes set on 1 day.  Please.  We
haven't made that determination yet."
     "I was good yesterday."
     Good?  In what universe?  Emm blinked, several sarcastic
things to say rising to the top of her mind. She bit them all back.
"Dana said you had problems all yesterday.  Okay.  Let's decide
what you're going to do other than take apart her TV."
     Mulder grinned.  "Now there's a thought.  Except I think I'd
much rather play with her microwave."
     "No deal.  She'd kill me," Emm said without thought.  "So,
what have you been putting off?"
     "I'd like to start an article on urban legends and  UFO's and
current changes in these legends due to increased online computer
usage.  I've done some preliminary research.  And sent a few
feelers out for selling it."  Mulder shrugged.  "Pretty well
received, I thought."
     Emm turned her face to the heavens, hit the top of her head
against the chair back.  "Don't you have any nonthreatening
hobbies, like playing with fertilizer and diesel fuel?"
     "What?  I can spend all day on that, happily surfing the
net."
     "I'm sure."  Emm rubbed her nose.  "All right."  She shook her
head, wondered where her headache was coming from. Duh. It was
sitting over on her couch, beside the stain in her carpet from his
coffee, grinning like a chesire cat.  She got up and found a note
pad roughly the size of his notebook, tossed it to him with a
couple of good pens.
     "Here." 
     Mulder sighed, pushed down to the floor, legs under the coffee
table.  "You're a real pain."
     "You wanted me."  Emm sat diagonally across from him, leaving
room for his legs to poke out from under the glass surface.  "By
the way, what did Madani give you?"
     Mulder sighed.  "Xanax."
     "And?"
     "And a prescription for Tofranil. . .But that's an iffy
situation."
     Emm sighed.  "Yeah, I know. . .but it helps some people. 
MAOIs help more, but the dietary restrictions are hell and you
can't always get it when you're out in the boonies.  Do you know
what symptoms are usually helped by the drugs?"
     "Nightmares, anxiety, depression. . .sometimes the anger. . ."
     Emm stared at Mulder pointedly. 
     Mulder shrugged.  
     "If you're not going to take the Tofranil, you might want to
tell Madani.  There are better drugs out there if you're not going
on TCA's.  You're a prime candidate for them though."
     Deep breath.  "Scully's about argued me down to trying it for
a couple of months. If it doesn't help she won't bitch."  He
frowned.  "I got the Xanax filled."
     "Have you taken any?"
     "Two."
     "When?"
     "One yesterday afternoon.  One before bed."
     "Why'd you take the afternoon one."
     "Karen made me."
     "Why'd she make you?"  Emm knew about this one.  Wanted to
hear Mulder's version.
     "I. . .we. . .I got mad."
     "Scully said you got upset when you couldn't find a t-shirt."
     "Yeah."  Mulder frowned.  
     "She said you started just pulling things down from the closet
and yelling."
     He shrugged.  "I didn't like knowing that I was going to have
a baby sitter.  My mom called while we were at my apartment. 
Scully wouldn't let me talk to her.  I don't know what's worse,
talking to her or not talking to her.  I feel so guilty."
     "And then you got upset over not finding a t-shirt."  
     Mulder smiled crookedly.  "Okay, so it wasn't the shirt.  She
didn't realize that it would hurt me, what she said."
     Emm frowned.  "Didn't realize or didn't want to realize?  Just
wanted to make herself feel better."
     Mulder shrugged.  
     "What did Scully tell your Mom?"
     "Just that. . .oh just that I was. . ."  He paused.
     "Did she still want to talk to you?"
     "She doesn't like Scully," Mulder mumbled, tapped his pen on
the paper. "What do you want me to do with this?"
     Emm frowned, replayed her conversation with Mulder's mother. 
     "Even now?  Now that she knows it wasn't really Sam?"
     Mulder shrugged. "She didn't want to talk to her.  Just wanted
to talk to me."
     "Why?  Was Scully telling her how you were feeling?  Was
Scully telling your mom what happened?"  Emm felt new respect for
Dana Scully, imagining Mulder physically trying to grab the phone
on one end and Amelia Mulder on the other end trying to put the
guilt all back on her son's shoulders and Scully in the middle
informing the woman of exactly what her phone call had done.
     Mulder stared at the paper.  "It wasn't like that."
     "What was it like?"
     "Mom's fragile.  She doesn't understand. . ." Mulder
swallowed.  
     Emm nodded speculatively.  "Tell me about Bear again."
     "I told you yesterday."
     "So?  I want to hear the whole thing."
     Mulder sighed. "I started the kindergarten. . ."
     "What month was it?"
     "October.  Just after my birthday.
     "Dad took me on the ferry with him and then to the University
every morning.  And one day I was sleepy and I just carried Bear
with me and I took him to class with me.  Teacher didn't say
anything.  Sometimes kids brought their stuffed animals.  I put it
in my cubby and pulled him out for nap and no one minded.  I showed
him at Circle."
     "What did the other kids say?"
     "I told them how Bear was really a Narnia Bear and he knew how
to fight.  I told them how my Great Aunt Miranda had given him to
me before she died."
     "This was after your great aunt died?" 
     Mulder nodded, eyes glittering.  His hands were on his
shoulders, pinching and moving and gathering bits of flannel shirt
into his hands and letting go.
     "Okay.  So you told them about that."
     "I went to Daycare after school with the other faculty kids
who didn't have parents to pick them up at 3. . .Dad came and got
me.  He was mad when he saw Bear and he didn't say anything the
whole way home.  He said I shouldn't have taken Bear because I had
to be mature and stuffed animals were for girls and babies and it
didn't matter what Aunt Miranda said about stuffed animals anymore
because Aunt Miranda was dead.  It was my fault we were in this
fix, because I always acted like a baby.  We got into the house and
he took Bear and ripped him up," Mulder recited monotone, trapped
somewhere else; as a frightened little boy, on a sharp October day,
just barely four, living in a land of predatory giants.  
     "He just took him and ripped him up, and I started crying and
he grabbed me by my arm and jerked and then. . .oh God, it hurt. 
It hurt and I screamed and he was so mad.  He hit me with his other
hand, and then he saw how my arm was twisted in his hand, and he
let go."  Mulder stopped, vacant eyed.
     "What else do you remember?"  Emm asked quietly.
     "Snow and Ice.  Bear was in Narnia with Mr. Tumnus and I
wanted to stay there forever, because Bear could protect me in
Narnia.  Bear was always scared of the dark and the things that
came sometimes and took us, but I never told.  I pretended he was
strong, but Bear was scared.  But in Narnia it was okay.  Bear. .
.they don't hurt you in Narnia."
     Emm shut her eyes.  Deep breath.  "Mulder, are you in Narnia?"
     "No."
     "Do you want to remember this?"
     "No."
     "Okay.  Mulder, you know how to forget about Narnia, don't
you?"
     "I close my eyes.  And I go to sleep."
     "Okay.  Why don't you do that?"
     Mulder nodded, obediently closed his eyes.
     Emm swallowed, very frightened.  






Emmaline Harris's Notes from File of Fox Mulder

    "My children have told me that they think about places
sometimes, when they are being hit.  Pretend they are somewhere
else until the somewhere else is real.  I remember doing that:
there was a picture one of my teachers had.  There was a cottage
with a beautiful, riotous garden full of color.  Beyond it, in
shimmering green and blues lay fields and trees.  I remember
pretending I was in the cottage, in the garden with its broad stone
paths and eternal summer sun.  Sometimes I went to my garden and
stayed and I could hear bees buzzing and smell flowers whose names
I did not even know.  I could go into the cottage and a nice lady
gave me hot milky tea and warm, sweet muffins.  
     Science taught me not to trust those memories.  Memories
change.
     I assummed Mulder's Trance states were times of withdrawal. 
Times when he retreated into a form of psychosis.  I call them
trance states because I didn't want to scare anyone with that
word, "psychosis."  Which in its purest form means simply a retreat
from reality.  Which carries with it the connotation of crazy, of
mentally unable to cope.  A non-psychotic trance state always
struck me as somehow. . .well, I didn't put much faith in it.  We
are a species that has developed imagination.  And it is, in my
opinion, one of the best coping mechanisms he have.  The ability to
spin myths and visit places we aren't.  It certainly kept me from
going crazy.  I had long stories inside my head, better than my
mother's soaps.  And I could create them for hours.  I could keep
out the bad things.  
     I didn't believe it could be like this, though. Trance states
like this were the product of sloppy therapists.
     But here is an eidetic memory.  And a man who knows what
memories of his have been changed, or *thinks* he knows, anyway. 
I know that if I played the mind games with him that we played in
college--look at a picture, draw it a week later, two weeks later,
three weeks later, four weeks later, ad nauseam--I know that if I
were to play this game too, what I drew would eventually look
nothing like the picture, while what he drew would continue to be
perfectly accurate, no matter how much time we allowed to elapse.
     And here he is, presenting me with a trance, an internal world
where no one hit him.  Where Mr. Tumnus or the Beaver always
invited him in for dinner.  Where the snow was cold, but there were
always talking animals to help him find his way.  Where Bear went
after Bear died here.  A trance state that is not voluntary, a
world to replace, not to supplement.  Psychotic perhaps.  There is
a diagnosis proposed for further study in the the DSMIV, called
Dissociative Trance Disorder.  I read about it a couple of years
ago, sharing fig newtons with Bandura, my resident vegitarius
felix, and thought, well, here's a good way for somebody to make
some more money.   Now, I don't know.
     

     Most of the people I know change their memories to fit their
world and they do it constantly.  Fox Mulder has done that on one
or two occasions and right now it has him a step away from
involuntary committal into a psychiatric ward.  He believes in
repressed memories, and I can sincerely understand why.  I've never
had much faith in repressed memories.  But then Fox Mulder can
remember when he started walking and talking.  Any gaps in his
memory have got to be crystalline to him.  Black gaping pits of
fear and anxiety.  So he knows he doesn't know what happened, but
he knows that there are monsters swarming in those pits.  Most
people would just assume it was something they forgot.  Mulder
knows that he doesn't "just forget." 
     Did he repress or did he create Narnia so that he wouldn't be
where the abuse was?  He's in Narnia, so he's perceiving Narnia. 
He's not perceiving the pain and the screams and his father's
anger.  He doesn't have to see or feel or hear the hurt and the
anger and violence. He was very clear on the point that only when
his father hit him did he go to Narnia.  So there are very clear
behavioral parameters to Narnia.  If this is true, there may be no
way for Mulder to retrieve any memories of abuse.  He wasn't
present for the abuse.  He was in Narnia.
     What about the abduction of Samantha?  Obviously, from
Mulder's reaction yesterday, his memory of that incident is
completely polluted.  Dana Scully is convinced that from the
evidence Mulder put together in his FBI report on his sister's
disappearance, that there is no way Mulder could have killed her. 
I sincerely hope that is true, because I don't think any real
memory of that encounter exists now.  And sometimes I doubt any
real memory *ever* existed. 

     Mulder and I, before all this began, knew each other because
of our mid-line, still argumentative, positions on recovered
memories, PTSD, Dissociative Identity Disorder and the Courage to
Heal movement.  Now I don't know what avenue I'm being tugged down.

     Mulder needs to learn to stop blaming himself in the here and
the now.  I don't think his relationship with his mother will ever
be completely healthy.  Not with Managed Care anyway.  So what
do I do?  
     What about 1-2-3?  If I asked Mulder about 1-2-3 what would he
tell me? 

===========================================================================

From: amperage@aol.com (Amperage)
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: Part II of Therapy (8 of 8)
Date: 20 Jul 1995 15:03:36 -0400


  Therapy II, part 8
by Amperage@aol.com

Xfiles characters came from you know where and you belong to you know
whom.

 "Well. . ." Mulder sighed, sipped at his coffee.  "I see the
decorating police have gotten to you."
     Emm frowned.  "Taxes, taxes, taxes.  Ian, our money person,
has been all over me to redecorate.  Your coffee spill on my light
colored carpet was all the bastard needed."  She glanced back at
her desk and the carpet and wallpaper and upholstery books piled up
next to it.  "I'm going to choose some fabrics and textures and
looks and they're going to redecorate.  I get to keep my chiffarobe
and my desk.  I pitched a fit and the decorator said he'd work
around my whitewashed chiffarobe and cherry desk. . ."  Emm frowned
comically.  "How's the article?"
     "I'm having fun with it.  The proliferation of books
that are popularly read--like Whitney Strieber and Bill Mack, for
example--has had a great deal of influence on abduction stories and
the development of false memories."
     "My uncle didn't rape me, the alien from Communion did?"  Emm
sighed.
     "Yeah.  Or I need to be loved and helped so the mind creates
a memory of abductions similar to the one in Fire in the Sky."
     Emm chuckled.  "You know I have these weird little allergies
or something. . .I get these marks--a cross between a pimple and a
sore--on my arm and if I scratch 'em enough, I make scars.  Well,
there's a set of two on one arm, and three on the other.  The three
are even in a little pyramid. . .I scared the shit out of some
people last Halloween at a Hospital party for the staff. . .Told
them I'm on the road between court cases so much and I don't
remember whole gaps of time--which is true, but that's because I
start thinking about cases instead of the road--and showed them the
scars."
     Mulder was listening intently.  "And what did they say?"
     "I convinced two or three PhD's who are real believers in
repressed memories that I'm an abductee. . .even after I made my
disclaimers and said I'd made it all up. . ."  Emm grinned.  
     Mulder shook his head.  "It's people like you who make my work
so hard.  But you do believe it exists."
     "You know of a couple of the cases I've had, where I didn't
have any other explanation.  It's like sexual abuse.  It happens,
and it's horrible when it happens, but not everyone who claims it
happens to them, had it happen to them."  Emm paused deliberately,
as though musing.  "You know, I read something the other
day I thought might interest you.  Someone was looking for
information on a program that existed back in the early 60's, 
called 1-2-3."  
     Mulder's face froze.  "Don't play games," he muttered,
staring at Emm, emotionless.  "Don't fucking play games with me
Emm."
     Emm stared back, passionless, not sure what to tell, what to
withhold.  "What was 1-2-3?  What did they do to you there?"
     Mulder stared at her. "It was an experiment and if my father
hadn't worked for the goddamn state department before I was born,
I would have been stuck there and spent all my years in a goddamn
psych ward."
     "You remember 1-2-3?"
     He nodded.
     "Have you *ever* talked about it with anyone?"
     Mulder shook his head.  "After I came back, Dad took me into
his study and told me to never, ever, ever speak about it, that
he'd just barely gotten me back and he didn't know what price he'd
have to pay. Then he hugged me and cried and promised he'd never
hurt me again.  A promise he broke over supper that night," Mulder
snorted.  "What do *you* know?"
     "It was in one of your hospital records."
     Mulder nodded speculatively.  "It was a program, supposedly an
alternative to foster care.  The Feds were running it. . .this
social worker came and saw me after I got hurt one time and the
next thing *I* knew I was in a room with padded walls.  That's all
I remember.  Being in rooms with padded walls.  I remember once,
getting to play with some toys and then this other kid started
teasing me and I hit him and then I was back in that room.  Mom got
in to see me once, but not for very long.  Then they took her out
in the hall and told her I was severely disturbed."  He sighed.  
     "Were you?" Emm asked quietly.
     Mulder glanced at Emm, shrugged.  "I was a little kid and I
was scared.  I don't know.  I don't think so.  I was mostly
scared."
     Emm nodded quietly.  "I have a friend who was. . .he was told
it was an alternative for foster care too. . .and he worked with it
for a year, trying to change what they were doing.  He finally got
out. . .He was your doctor."
     Mulder closed his eyes.  "Tall.  No hair.  Beard.  Glasses
sometimes.  A soft voice."
     Emm nodded.  "I trust this man.  He says you were having real
problems."
     Mulder absorbed her words.  "What kinds of problems?"
     "You were. . .he thought you were moving into childhood
schizophrenia."
     Mulder went pale at this diagnosis.  "What. . .I want to know
what *he* saw."
     Emm took a deep breath.  "Crying.  Trance states.  Sometimes
you'd get violent."
     Mulder listened, nodded.  "I was just so scared.  They gave me
drugs that made it hard to think."  He put his elbows on his knees,
hands folded at his chin, thumbs to his lips, thinking.  "I never
did ask, but sometimes I'd wonder whether I just made it up or not.
If it was real or not.  I've never been able to find out anything
about 1-2-3.  Nothing.  It's like it didn't exist."  He looked up. 
"Maybe I did kill her."
     What the hell had brought this on?  Emm frowned.    "Where'd
that come from?"
     "I. . .maybe something did happen to me.  Maybe your friend
wasn't off."
     "No.  Mulder.  He thought you were going to go inward, go into
a fantasy world.  Not hurt people."
     "Maybe I just *thought* the aliens wanted her. Maybe I made up
a story so I'd have an excuse for killing her.  Like your Halloween
story.  And like people who make up repressed memories, I just
started believing it."
     Oh God.  What had she done?  Every time she moved she opened
a trapdoor and new monsters flew out to confront them.  It was like
the boathouse at Steve's Aunt Kee's, when she'd bought the house
the summer after the stalking and Emm had lived with her.  And the
realtor had said there were some snakes in the boathouse, but they
could call an exterminator.  But they'd decided to do it
themselves.  They'd found a nest of snakes in the floorboards and
killed them, and then they heard the snakes in the rafters, so they
got a neighbor and he'd killed 12 snakes in the rafters, and then
they'd pulled down the old rotted shelves and the ropes and found
tons more snakes, baby snakes and big snakes and snakes so small
you couldn't see them but the snake guy from the university where
Aunt Kee was a researcher, said they were there. . .And then they'd
thought they'd finally gotten rid of the snakes, but when they
tried to get the old rotted boats hauled away they *really* got
into the nest of 'em. . .  Emm still had nightmares about that
Boathouse. . .  She blinked.  She'd been quiet maybe a half minute,
she estimated.  Mulder was sitting with his eyes closed, thinking
whatever thoughts. . .Emm wasn't sure anymore.  She checked the
floor for snakes, checked the area around her.
     "What are you doing?" Mulder asked her, tiredly.
     Emm stared at him, shrugged.  She could just sense that she'd
missed looking somewhere and a snake was hissing in wait for her. 
Besides, Mulder was in no position to judge *her* mental wellness.
"Looking for snakes," she answered in utter seriousness.
     Mulder closed his eyes, threw his head back and howled.  He
might have killed his sister, might have had an eminent child
psychologist believe he was going to be institutionalized his
entire life, but God, that line was just too damn funny.
     
     When Mulder finally calmed down, Emm had pretty well reassured
herself there were *no* snakes lurking about her office.  "God,
what made you think that?" he asked, as a file clerk brought them
more coffee.
     Emm grinned.  "A metaphor for working with you. . . We seem to
keep digging deeper and deeper into your mind and finding more and
more shit.  Every time I think, okay, that's it, something else
happens. I find a new snake.  I'm terrified of snakes."
     "Now I know what to get you for your birthday."  Mulder wiped
a tear from his eye.  "What would you do if I were any other
patient?"
     "Sit quietly until the session was over, walk them to the
front and then be ten minutes late for my next appointment until I
knew there weren't any snakes," Emm replied.  "I know it's terribly
irrational.  You know two secrets about me now."
     "Hey that's right." He smiled.  "What can I get for it?  Let's
see, knowing your shrink has a pathological fear of snakes. . ."
     "I cleaned out a boathouse once and there were like I think we
counted maybe 200 snakes.  Okay?  I have a perfectly good reason," 
Emm retorted.  "Perfectly and wonderfully valid reason."
     "Yeah, but most people can't stand to know that their shrink
has anything wrong with them.  We're supposed to be perfectly
healthy."
     "Like FBI agents aren't supposed to have any doubts about
their past?"  Emm segued neatly, watching the easiness flee from
his posture.  "Mulder.  You *did* not kill your sister."  
     Mulder's smile evaporated.  "I don't know. . ."
     "There was no way in *hell* you killed your sister.  I tell
you what. Let's make that your assignment.  You still have a copy
of the police reports?"
     "Yeah. . .somewhere."
     "You go back and reread the whole thing and try to come up
with a way you could have killed her.  And then hand it over to
Scully.  She's going to be able to blow holes in any theory you
come up with, and you know it and I know it."
     Mulder swallowed.  
     "I mean it.  Look, you work this out.  Take it every blessed
possible direction you can.  I haven't even seen the reports but
I'd give good money that this Fox killed Sam is some half-baked
notion of your mother's.  Your father had an analytical mind,
didn't he?"
     Mulder frowned, shrugged.
     "Did he ever accuse you of killing her?"
     No answer.
     "Did he?"  Emm's voice rose in intensity.
     "No," Mulder admitted softly.  
     "What did he accuse you of?"
     "Oh not protecting her.  Of not being there. Of not being a
man.  Of not being kidnapped in her place."
     "He *always* assumed someone had come in and taken your
sister?"
     Mulder bit his lip.  Nodded.
     "This man put every ounce of blame on you he could and he
never said you were the one who killed her."
     "Do you think that's why I. . .why I was so good at writing
profiles. . .antisocial behavior is. . .well, it's genetic to some
extent."
     "I don't know.  It could be.  I don't know enough to say no. 
You're not antisocial. You know that, don't you?"
     Mulder took a deep breath.  Closed his eyes.  "Yes.  I had the
perfect background to turn out to be a serial killer.  But I
didn't.  But I. . .I knew those killers. . .I *knew* them.  It was
sooo easy. . ."  He looked up.  "It made me vomit.  Not seeing the
bodies, but sliding into thinking like them.  Vomit and have bad
dreams and. . ."  He shook his head, sighed.  "If I didn't kill
her, do you think aliens really abducted her?"
     "I don't know.  Something happened to her and it paralyzed you
so badly you couldn't talk or think.  Something out of the norm. 
Something that shouldn't have happened.  If you believe it was
aliens, good enough."
     "You don't think my memory is real do you?"
     Emm frowned.  Time to hedge.  "Well. . .I don't know. .. you
know my position on repressed memories is different from yours. .
.I don't really. . ."
     "A simple `no' would be sufficient, Emm." Mulder's voice was
tolerant.
     "I don't know."  Emm shrugged.  
     "But you lean towards no."
     "I think, if you accept the idea of aliens, that your sister
was probably abducted by them.  Your memory. . .we've got the
influence of PTSD, hypnosis, years of nightmares before you ever
went into therapy.  Your guilt.  Your parents' pathology.  Your
pathology. . ."  Emm shrugged.  "I wouldn't want to haul the
critters into court by their little grey butts based solely on your
testimony, no."
     "Emm, you put no in such a nice way, I'm not even insulted."
Mulder closed his eyes.  "But you don't think I killed her."
     "No.  I think something happened in that house, and I think
there wasn't any way for you to stop it.  I know you wanted to
very, very much, but that you couldn't."
     Mulder stared at Emm a long time. 
     Emm stared back; maybe, just maybe he was listening.  If not
to her, then to Scully and maybe he was listening to logic and to
himself.  Change doesn't come quickly, it comes dropping slow. 
     "I won't be in the office tomorrow.  You knew that, right?" 
Emm asked, digging through her files.  "Two days in court." 
     Mulder sighed.  "You have my deepest sympathies."
     Emm shrugged.  "It's a criminal case, and I'm on the bad guy's
side, so don't extend 'em.  This is one time when I have absolutely
no guilt charging perfectly outrageous sums."
     "Why'd you take the case?"
     "Because the prosecution has charged my client with everything
but pumping the family mutt on the basis of a five year old's
memory.  I hope he gets the book thrown at him for some of the
things he did do, but not for things a grown woman made up."
     Mulder nodded.  
     "I'm sure you'll make a perfect defense witness with that
attitude."
     "Oh, don't worry about it.  The defense knows what I think.
They say that establishes their credibility even more."  Emm
shrugged.  "Weird kind of logic, but I can see it.  Okay.  Khris
Andersen is going to handle any emergency calls.  I've already told
Scully.  Khris is a good guy.  If anything comes up, don't
hesitate. "
     Mulder nodded.  They both knew he had absolutely no intention
of calling Khris under any circumstances.
     "About work."  Emm swallowed.  "I've already talked to Dana. 
She seems to feel you're working on all thrusters.  But I'm not
going to be around for emergency calls.  And you can still take a
day or two more off without anybody getting nosy.  So what if I
let you go in for a half-day?  You can even take some paperwork
home.  No Karen."
     Mulder nodded.  "That's what Scully said you'd discussed."
     "Okay."  Emm swallowed.  "So I'll schedule an appointment for
Friday.  And I'll call tomorrow night as well, see what your work
schedule should be."
     Another nod.  "I think I'm going to be okay."
     "You're already okay, Mulder.  You know that.  We're trying
for. . ." Greg's words came up to the surface suddenly.  "We're
trying for something better."
 


Author's Note:

You knew I'd have 'em.  Can't resist talking at the end.  
There are a couple of things I already know I'm going to have to
defend and so I'll do it here, rather than in letters.  Still, feel
free to write and blast me.  

Since the early part of March I have embarked on a prodigous quest
to read up on what's being done with Memory studies, what's proven,
what's not proven, whether or not it looks like a hot topic in pop
psychology (ie, is this too esoteric or can I make a living at
something related to it?).  For me, even doing it on a leisurely
basis, that means that I can pretty much have done the amount of
reading it might take some people a couple of years to do. 
(Phenomenal reading rate and very strong visual memory.  I'm
blessed.  Probably how I managed to graduate college.  I would read
the texts when I was bored those first couple of weeks before the
profs got out of first gear.  Then the parties sped up and I found
new jobs and . . .uh, yeah.)  It began because I wanted to write an
X-file story and I was thinking maybe about heading in that
direction with my graduate studies and I just kinda got sucked in.
. .

I've read material from all different areas on the Repressed Memory
movement.  I've read a couple of texts on the biological features
of memory.  (Fave, probably because I can understand it--Memory and
Brain, by Larry Squire.)  A lot of articles on expiraments with
memory.  I've looked at the bible of the movement, The Courage to
Heal.  I've read materials from the False Memory Syndrome groups. 
The only thing I can say for certainty:   I found no direct,
imperical evidence for repression functioning in a literal sense. 
I found no imperical evidence that our minds remember *everything*,
in fact, quite the reverse.  

My husband (the EE) is found of the illustration of Tomatoes. 
Tomatoes are related to the Belladona Nightshade.  For a long time
they were considered poisonous.  A pretty enough ornamental--like
the poinsetta, I guess--but deadly dangerous.  Everyone accepted
it.  It was just common sense.  Then someone wanted evidence of the
dangerousness of the tomato.  The evidence I have read (and please
don't write and ask for reading lists, I don't have 'em.  This was
for my edification.  This is an apology, not a class lecture.  Do
what I did.  Take a day or two off work, put some quiet munchies in
a backpack, get tons of change and head to the closest university
and READ.  Go to your local lending library.  Request books, even
if they have to borrow them from another library.) indicates that
the idea of our minds recording everything in perfection is a myth.

A nice Victorian myth that a man named Freud bought into and has
become part of our "common sense."  Just like the myth that
"playing with yourself" is evil.  (As Jocelyn Elders found out.)

All Kiddie, educational, or developmental psych courses teach you
about the schema and the schemata.  Put simply, we build webs of
connections between ideas and thoughts.  And evidence is mounting
that this is how we remember.  Not linearly, but by connection. 
And we can change connections.  We can change memories.  We can
lose connections.  We can forget.  We can not have the connections
in place far enough to understand a thing going around us so we
either reinterpret it to fit our "web" or we forget it. We modify
memory.  

There's more I'd like to say, but if I'm not careful I'll spin this
out in so many directions it won't just be a note anymore.  If you
are interested in 4 books on the subject that your local library
*should* have, I highly reccomend:

On the side of the False memory people:  
*Making Monsters* by Richard Ofshe and Ethan Watters
*The Myth of the Repressed Memory*  Elizabeth Loftus and an
associate (I lent my copy out to a friend and the little worm 
hasn't returned it yet.  Grrrrr. . . I apologize for not having the
other name, it is. . .well, it's rude.)

On the "Courage to Heal" side, people who stress the validity of
the repressed memory:

*Courage to Heal* Ellen Bass and Laura Davis  (I would reccomend
that your read this with a level head, knowing before you start
reading whether or not you were abused in any way.  Keep that in
mind.  The book is *powerfully* seductive.  Kind of like going to
a casino.  I *know* that the machines are geared to a random reward
system, one usually pretty close to the ratio for a perfect
learning curve, but then I get my free diet coke and I sit there
and isn't it *fun*. . .)  

*Unchained Memories* Lenore Terr


The second thing I need to mention is something I rather thought
was painfully obvious until just recently.  That is that the way I
have protrayed Mulder's relationship with his family is nastily
typical of abusive homes.  The fact is that physical, emotional
(and I don't mean the yah-yahing that parents do sometimes, I mean
systematically breaking down a child using words.  I've seen it. I
felt like I was looking at evil every time I spoke with that
parent.) and sexual abuse are painfully real in our society.  The
fact is that children protect their abusers.  The fact is that the
abusers themselves often started out as victims.  One of the most
typical patterns, especially in "nice" middle class homes, is of an
abuser who lashes out in anger and rage and spends the rest of the
time making up. And has a child who loves him or her terribly.  

A couple of other nigglings, and please take them both with a grain
of salt, because I don't have their source, don't quote me or
anything, they're just rolling around from my adolescent psych
class of many moons ago: adolescents are more likely to be abused 
and more likely to be severly battered than all the other age groups 
combined, but the state is least likely to do anything about it.  
Abuse is likely to occur in *any* socio-economic strata.  We 
are mostly likely to do something about it when it occurs in the 
working class or below.


Last thing, personal diatribe.  What upsets me most about movements
that make people who had perfectly normal home lives believe that
they were abused is simple.  There really are people out there who
were abused and battered and raped.  When the public opinion shifts
it will be from "believe everything" to "trust no one" and some
very innocent children and some very hurting adults are going to be
the ones who suffer.


Oh.  I nearly forgot.  I'm halfway through therapy III, so if you
want to see it, convince me that you like this.  Email me.  If I
come off awkward in my letters, it's probably because I am.  Unlike
Goo, I have a hard time with email to people I don't know.  But I
do really, really appreciate getting it. . .that didn't come out
right.  Maybe Goo will have pity and explain to people how I squeal
with delight when I get email about my stories. . .