I step up to the counter, greeting the nurse with a half-hearted “hello.” She doesn’t even acknowledge me at first; she just keeps typing into her computer with a focus that borders on dismissive. When she finally looks up, there’s no smile, no acknowledgment of the usual “thank you for your service” that they often throw out, the kind of shallow gesture they think will make you feel appreciated. But I’m not feeling special—not today, at least. Apparently, neither is she. No small talk, no pleasantries. She just points me toward the lab to get my blood drawn, as if I’m just another task to be handled, another name on a list.

I walk down the sterile hallway, my footsteps echoing in the space, each step making me feel more like a number than a person. The lab tech is no better. She’s buried in her own world, not even looking up as she motions for me to sit down. There's no warmth, no kindness in her eyes, just a robotic focus on the task at hand. As she prepares the needle, I catch a glimpse of her expression—blank, detached, as if I’m not even in the room with her. The process is quick, almost too quick. A sharp prick of the needle, the blood filling the vial, and I’m done.

“Alright, you’re finished,” she says, handing me a cotton ball to press against the small puncture. Her voice is flat, and there’s no sense of care in it. I’m just a body, a piece of meat that needed a quick poke and nothing more. She doesn’t make eye contact, doesn’t offer any words of reassurance, just tells me to go down the hall to the next room.

I head down the corridor, my mind still processing the lack of human connection in the air. When I get to the next room, it’s as clinical as the rest of the facility—cold, sterile, and unwelcoming. The walls are bare, save for a few pieces of medical equipment scattered around. I sit down on the exam table, trying to make myself comfortable, though it’s hard to feel at ease in a place that doesn’t seem to care about comfort. The nurse enters shortly after, takes my blood pressure, and checks my temperature with a mechanical efficiency that feels more like a checklist than an actual medical assessment. There’s no eye contact, no small talk. She doesn’t even ask how I’m feeling, just moves through the motions with practiced speed.

As she finishes, she mutters, “The doctor will be in shortly,” and walks out without another word. It’s almost like she’s counting the minutes until she can leave. The door clicks shut behind her, and I’m left alone in the room, the silence pressing in around me.

I sit there, waiting. The minutes stretch on, but it feels like hours. I wonder if the doctor will be any different, if they’ll actually see me as a person, or if I’ll just be another case to check off their list. The thought of more clinical coldness settles like a weight in my stomach. I came here expecting help, maybe even a little empathy, but instead, I’m met with indifference at every turn. It’s like I’m invisible, or worse, a nuisance.

I can feel the creeping frustration rising inside me. It’s not just the lack of civility or the coldness of the place; it’s the overwhelming sense that I’m not here as a person, as someone with a past, with a story, but just as another body to be processed, another name to be crossed off a list. The lack of human connection is suffocating, and I can’t shake the feeling that I’m not being seen, not really. I’m just another patient to be shuffled through the system, to be sent on my way without a second thought.

There’s a rapid knock at the door, followed by the sound of it swinging open. Before I can even fully adjust my posture, a new doctor walks in. Her presence is a stark contrast to the coldness I’ve encountered so far in this place. She strides in with purpose, her professional demeanor immediately noticeable. As she enters, she locks eyes with me, and for the first time all day, I’m seen. There’s a warmth in her gaze, a slight curve to her lips as she smiles.

"How are we doing today, Frank? I am Doctor Nazir. How's everything been going for you?" she asks, her voice carrying an authentic tone of interest. It’s not the usual scripted question that feels like a formality—it feels real, like she wants to know.

For a brief moment, I’m caught off guard. I’m not used to being asked about my well-being, especially not in this environment. It’s like the air in the room shifts, and the weight of the past few minutes—the coldness, the disconnection—lifts, just for a moment. Her question doesn’t feel rushed, like she’s trying to move on to the next patient. She stands there, waiting for my answer, giving me the time to respond.

The contrast is striking. I’m not sure how to react. It’s such a simple thing—just a genuine question, a moment of human connection—but it hits me harder than I expected. In that moment, I realize how badly I’ve been craving this kind of interaction, something real, something personal.

I take a breath and prepare to answer, feeling like, for the first time today, I can speak my truth.

Yet, I lead with a lie.

“I’m fine. Everything seems to be going okay for the most part,” I replied begrudgently, my words coming out flat as if I’d rehearsed them a hundred times before. I didn’t have much faith that anything was going to change today.

Dr. Nazir didn’t miss a beat. She reached over to her desk, grabbed her rolling chair, and slid it across the floor. The sound of the wheels was sharp in the quiet room. Without hesitation, she positioned the chair right in front of me, lowering herself until we were eye to eye. For the first time today, I felt like someone was truly meeting me where I was—right in that space, on my level. Her presence was calm yet strong, and it didn’t feel forced.

There was something in the way she sat there—so close, yet without being overbearing—that softened the sterile, clinical edges of the room. It was like she was saying, “You matter. I’m here to listen.” It wasn’t just the act of sitting down; it was the way she had taken that moment to make it personal, to make it real.

She didn’t let the silence linger too long before she leaned forward, placing her hands on her knees. The gesture was subtle, but the meaning was clear—she was present, completely attentive. Then she asked the question again, but this time, it was different. Her tone was gentler, almost coaxing, like she was drawing the truth out of me.

“How are you really doing, Frank?” Her voice was low and steady, her gaze unwavering, as if she expected me to finally be honest. She closed the distance between us, now just a foot away, her eyes searching mine as if she truly wanted to understand. It wasn’t a question she asked lightly. It felt like she was willing to go deeper, willing to hear more than just a surface-level answer.

In that moment, something shifted. It wasn’t just the question—it was the way she asked it. There was no judgment, no rush, no expectation. She was there for me in a way I hadn’t experienced in a long time, and for the first time in ages, I felt like I could open up.

"Let's try that again. How are we doing today, Frank? How's everything been going with you? Are the meds working? Is the therapy helping at all?" Dr. Nazir asked, her voice warm and genuinely caring. It wasn't the sterile, detached tone I was used to hearing from doctors. It was different—like she was truly invested in the answer, not just going through a checklist of questions.

For a moment, I was taken aback. I had just come from sitting in that cold, unwelcoming waiting room, where the atmosphere was anything but empathetic. The receptionists barely acknowledged me, and the nurses seemed to rush through their duties without a second thought. I felt like an inconvenience at best, a burden at worst. So, hearing Dr. Nazir speak to me with such concern it threw me completely off guard. It was a stark contrast to everything I had experienced so far today.

I wasn’t used to this level of attention, this sincerity. For a moment, I almost didn’t know how to respond. I had been conditioned to expect little and to brace myself for the apathy I had come to associate with medical professionals. But here she was, asking about my well-being, not just as a patient but as a person. It caught me off guard in the best way possible.

There was a brief silence as I processed her words. It wasn’t just a question anymore—it was a lifeline. A simple, genuine inquiry that made me realize, maybe, just maybe, this time could be different.

"I don't know, Doc," I started, the words coming slower than I expected. "I have my good days and my bad days. I try to take it one day at a time, making each day count. I want everything I do to mean something. I try to stack good days on top of another good day so that by the end of the week, I can look back and say, 'I had a good week.' But for whatever reason, my mind—unlike others—won't let me be happy. It won’t let me be carefree. It won’t let me rest. Seems like the only thing it knows is trauma. I can't seem to get over my anxiety. I’m still grateful to have people who help me get through the day-to-day, but if it wasn’t for my wife, I don’t think I’d ever be able to go to the store or order a cheeseburger on my own. Things that used to be so simple now seem so hard.

The depression? It seems to be manageable on the days that I can keep a handle on it, but other days it’s like this dark, gaping black hole just swallowing me up. And then there are the triggers, the emotions I can’t contain, the rages I can’t seem to get over. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. All I want is to get healthy—for my kids. To be here longer for them, to enjoy the time I have with them.”

I paused, surprised by the rawness of it all. The words felt heavy in the air, but somehow, for the first time in a long while, it felt right to say them out loud. There was a vulnerability in admitting it, but there was also a kind of relief.

"I don’t know why I’m telling you all of this," I added, almost as if the words had escaped before I could stop them. "Maybe it’s because I feel like this might be one of the last times I truly say how I feel. But I can’t keep bottling it up anymore. I want to get better. For them."

This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

The silence that followed was thick. I caught myself off guard with the honesty, but at the same time, I realized how much I needed to say it, how much I needed to be heard.

"The medications seem to be doing what they need to these days," I continued, trying to find the right words to express the contradiction. "I know what they’re supposed to do, and on some days, it feels like they’re working—like they’re masking things, changing my mood, and I can recognize that shift. But then, there are other days... It’s like the meds aren’t doing what they’re supposed to. Sometimes, it feels like they’re making things worse. I get more numb, more distant, like they’re just not hitting the mark anymore. It’s frustrating, you know? One day, I feel a little better, and then the next, I feel like I’m stuck in the same place I was before."

I took a deep breath before adding, "Therapy with my civilian therapist has been helpful, though. She’s been teaching me a lot—helping me manage everything, giving me tools I can use to get through the day-to-day. We’ve been working on things like cognitive behavioral therapy and exposure therapy, and there are days where I feel like I’m making progress. But not every day is rainbows and sunshine. Not every day is a success. Some days, the tools just don’t seem to be enough. Some days, it feels like I’m still buried under it all."

I shook my head slightly, feeling a wave of exhaustion wash over me, as if just talking about it was draining. "I know it’s a journey, but it’s hard when progress feels like it’s two steps forward, one step back. I just want to get to a point where I can feel... at peace, you know?"

"Most days, I have to work on myself to be happy, to be content with life. It feels like I’m always striving for perfection, trying to be something more than what I am, like I'm under a constant microscope. And there are days when I wish that feeling would just go away. Not in the sense of shutting everything off forever, but just... not feeling so weighed down by it all. I don’t want to visit those dark thoughts again; I don’t want to go back to that place. But they still linger in the back of my mind, sometimes more than I care to admit."

I paused for a moment, thinking back to our last conversation. "I know after we talked last time, we said that we were running out of options, and to be honest, I wasn’t sure what our next steps were going to be. Since then, in the couple of weeks since that meeting, I’ve been putting in the work I can. I’ve been trying to handle what I can change, to take control of what’s within my power, and come to terms with what I can’t. The anxiety, the depression, even the PTSD—it’s all still there. The grief over losing the friends I served with, it still weighs on me. Those losses, they don’t just go away. They drive my actions, my personality, my mindset, every single day."

I looked down for a moment, gathering my thoughts before speaking again. "The person I am now... it’s not the same person I was before I served. The man I am now, he’s been shaped by all of it—the military, the loss, the struggles. And honestly, when dealing with my claims, my disability, it feels like I’m always reminded of that. It’s like the world sees me as this broken version of myself, this shadow of the man I used to be."

I could see it in her eyes—the weight of the words I’d just shared. It was clear that I’d just unloaded a lot of heavy information on her, but she didn’t shrink away from it like most people have. She didn’t pull back or change the subject, like so many others do when things get too real. Shelly, though, didn’t flinch. Her eyes locked onto mine, and there was something there—something that felt like approval. Not in the way people sometimes say, “I understand,” but in the way someone truly listens, truly hears what you're saying, and respects the rawness of it all.

It was a different feeling—one I hadn’t felt in a long time. Her gaze didn’t just skim over me or glance past, like I was just another name on a list. It felt like she was really seeing me, the person beneath all the layers, beneath all the walls I’ve built. At that moment, I could almost feel the compassion radiating from her. It reminded me of a time long ago—before everything, before my mom passed away, and before cancer stole her away from me. In those days, I used to feel like this, like someone truly saw me, like I mattered.

It’s been a long time since I’ve felt that way, and seeing it in her eyes it was almost like a glimpse back into a time when I could just be. When things were simpler. It caught me off guard, honestly, and I couldn’t quite put into words the depth of gratitude I felt for it.

“Frank, I’m truly sorry, and I feel in so many ways we failed you,” she said, her voice soft but sincere. “However, I think I might have some good news. Since your last visit, even though you were told, from what I hear, that time was running out and we were running out of options—that was more of a clinical error on this staff’s part and our own wrongdoings.”

I sat there in stunned silence. Did she just take the blame for all the other doctors I’d seen, for all the missteps, all the moments where I felt like just another patient tossed aside, forgotten in a world of medical red tape? I couldn’t believe it. Her honesty hit me like a ton of bricks. She didn’t just give me another empty apology. She actually acknowledged where things went wrong. And that... that made all the difference.

Her demeanor, though, was what truly floored me. I was so used to people being detached—cold professionals who did their job and moved on. But Shelly wasn’t like that. She stood up from her chair and walked over to her desk, moving with purpose but never hurried. She grabbed a folder with my name on it and then turned to face me. Her next words caught me off guard, though. “I have a friend—Doctor Lindstrom, who is a world-renowned psychologist and scientist. I’m going to give you his card. He has a new program, and your file was selected based on your various therapy sessions and diagnoses, along with even your kidney and heart issues that you’ve had in the past. He believes that he has a new therapy treatment that can help you. I’ve already spoken with him this morning, and he’s expecting your phone call as soon as you’re ready.”

It was like a weight had been lifted, but the shock still lingered. My mind raced, thinking about the possibilities. A new program. A new hope. For once, someone was taking the time to not just treat me like another case but like a real person. And that, more than anything, felt like the first real step forward in ages.

As she handed me the card, I wasn't quite sure what to make of it. Was she just passing me off to someone else, or was there a genuine chance that someone could help heal whatever was going on in my mind? Her voice had sounded reassuring, but that didn’t mean much these days. I took the card from her, noticing the bold, black-and-green logo on the front. It had two giant N’s on it—NeuroNexus.

My mind spun as I read the name. All I knew about NeuroNexus was that they were a massive company in the field of nanotechnology. In recent years, they had been pushing the boundaries with their technology, integrating AI and virtual reality therapy systems. It was cutting-edge stuff, sure. But as I stood there staring at the card, I couldn't help but feel a twinge of skepticism.

Virtual reality therapy? Seriously? I wasn’t sure if I could buy into that. I mean, I had no problem with technology when it was practical, but strapping on a headset and immersing myself in some digital world? That didn’t sit right with me. I could already picture it—me, fumbling around in some virtual room, tripping over furniture, and probably running headfirst into a wall in my own bedroom. And knowing me, I’d knock over something of my wife's in the process, causing another one of those “why can’t you just take it easy” moments.

No, that wasn’t how I envisioned getting better. I wasn’t looking for some high-tech gimmick that’d have me stumbling around like an idiot. I just wanted something that felt real—something tangible, something I could understand. But then again, what if this was the thing that finally clicked? I wasn’t exactly swimming in options. Maybe, just maybe, this was worth checking out.

I stared at the card one last time, the sharp black-and-green logo staring back at me, daring me to take that next step.

“Hey Doc, I don’t know if virtual reality is the thing that I need to be doing…” I started, my voice trailing off as I tried to wrap my head around the idea.

Before I could finish the sentence, she cut me off, her tone gentle but firm. “Trust me, Frank, give him a call. I think you’ll be most surprised by the findings and the technological advancements he’s been working on in the private sector for the government.”

I paused, taking in her words. She believed in this. The skepticism was still there, lingering at the edges of my thoughts, but something in the way she spoke made me hesitate—just enough to listen.

“Alright, Doc, I’ll give him a call and see what he has in mind for treatment,” I said, my voice laced with a mix of doubt and reluctant acceptance. I didn’t want to admit it, but there was a small part of me that wondered if this could work.

I said it with some level of indifference, the kind of attitude I’d developed from being pushed around and shuffled from one specialist to another over the years. It felt like the same old story. But this time... this time, Doc Nazir wasn’t just another face in the crowd. She wasn’t just another appointment. She’d shown real compassion, real understanding.

I could see it in her eyes—the remorse, the empathy—she wasn’t just doing her job; she cared. And that mattered, even if I wasn’t sure where this next step would take me.

With a sigh, I stood up, tucking the card into my pocket. “Keep moving forward,” I whispered to myself as I walked out of the office. Maybe this time, it wasn’t just the same old routine. Maybe, just maybe, this was my last stand.