The Merchant of Secrets by Caroline Lowther Page B

there’s something more
important than self-interest and I couldn’t define myself without it. There was
a stubbornness inside of me that wouldn’t accept defeat and so like a good
soldier I marched on.
     
      
     
    CHAPTER 14
     
     
     
     
     
    I found Dr. Sickle in a brown brick building, dating from
the 1970’s and clearly nobody had spent the money to upgrade it in the last 30
years. Located in an office park, it was a depressing   environment.
In the waiting room there were few magazines or anything else to look at while
waiting ;  just a panel of buttons attached to the
wall, one with the name of Dr. Sickle on it, so I pushed it.
     
    After about 20 minutes he came to retrieve me from the
waiting room; a short man nearing the half- century mark with a potbelly, wearing a bright red tie, and resembling a penguin. With a
soft, pleasant smile he directed me to his office. “You can sit there,” he
said, pointing to a chair on the opposite side of his desk. There was a reading
light with a high wattage light bulb shining in the direction of the seat of
the person who was being questioned, which in this case was me.  It was
unnerving but I just thought it was part of the testing. That light bulb
provided the only light in the room thus intensifying the focus on the visitor
in the chair. The walls were decorated with his own self- made works of art, so
he boasted.  Curiously all were painted in the same palette of medium
brown and dark green. Seeing that, I wanted to turn the light back on him.
     
    I took my seat and waited for him to begin the
interrogation. He began asking about my childhood and about my grandparents
then settled on my sex life and clung to that topic for most of the remaining
sessions, apparently looking to be entertained. I  was unnerved by his  voyeurism and  denied him the opportunity. He seemed
to be personally deprived of physical affection from another human being, or
maybe he was just obsessed with sex because he was dysfunctional in the
bedroom. Either way, he struck me as the type of person who shouldn’t be
allowed near children. Then he held up pictures of ink blobs on cardboard and
asked me to tell him what I saw and I invented some ridiculous answers to fit
the ridiculous questions.  
     
    The six sessions were pretty much the same and after the requirement
was complete a package arrived in the mail, with a return address indicating
who it came from, and I could tell it was my evaluation. I tensely opened the
heavy envelope and began reading. In it, the penguin-like therapist released a
 torrent of allegations against me, including that I was delusional and a
danger to myself and those around me and that I should immediately be removed
from my position  and commit myself to a “treatment program.” The words on
the paper hit like a right hook from a heavyweight boxer.  I foresaw the
damage it would do to my ability to regain my security clearance.  
     
    Also inside the envelope, was a note from Todd requiring
my presence at a meeting the next Monday at 1:00 at his office. It was clear he intended to bury me.
     
    Without a security clearance I could no longer work for
the Department of Homeland Security, the role that had defined me for so long
was gone, and with it my identity and my pride. There was no reason to get out
of bed in the morning anymore, I was alone and drowning in anguish, gripped by
a fear that I had become a shadow of my former self. I was being dragged to the
gates of Hell by a clown in a bright red tie. For almost my whole life I had
been strong and took pride in my resilience but this was too much even for
someone like me.  I was at the point where I needed to escape, so I opened
the liquor cabinet, put a bottle of gin to my lips and drank to
unconsciousness.
     
    There were many of us who believed in the sanctity of our
duty to this country but it was a lot like believing in Santa Claus, at some
point you have to grow up.  The Jones experience