| PHD #135: Conflicted Confidence |
| Summary: | Davis meets Dr Byrne for an initial return-to-duty evaluation. |
| Date: | 11 Jul 2041 AE |
| Related Logs: | None |
| Players: |
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| Psychiatry Office - Sickbay - Battlestar Cerberus |
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| A small office with a desk, chair and lounging couch. |
| Post-Holocaust Day: #135 |
Davis sits on the couch wearing her duty uniform, as the appointment is in the middle of her duty day. That means very little work at this point: Relegated to light duty, and having been medically incommunicado for so long, she is deluged in paperwork for the time being. In fact she's filling some of it out now as she waits for the doctor, a testament to both recycling and military resilience that some hardcopy paperwork is still required. Technically she's already done, all the Ensign is really doing is turning all the dots and periods into little hearts with her purple pen.
"Ensign." Comes a voice as the door to the psychiatric office is pushed open and the figure of Dr. Byrne becomes visible. Most can note instantly that he is not a military man, no sign of rank on his labcoat or the suit he wears underneath it. He's also suffered some injury in the past, evidenced by the cane he rests quite a bit of weight on as he moves through the door way. "I'm Dr. Byrne, I'll be evaluating your progress from here until you are returned to full active duty once more." Slowly but surely he gets himself around the desk and to his chair, not sitting down just yet.
The doctor's arrival brings Davis to attention in a choppy motion, as though filmed at a lesser speed than the rest of life. "Doctor," the puffball redhead replies, shifting from attention to parade-rest, clipboard held to her behind. "Thank you for making the time, Doctor," she chirps. "I'm not sure if…" Her mouth snaps shut then, as a person does when about to say something crass at a party.
"My schedule has gotten busier lately, but I will always make time when needed." Byrne replies rather blandly as he moves into his chair and settles slowly into it. He gestures to one of the chairs across from the desk, "Take a seat, Ensign." A pad of paper is picked up and a pen which is clicked once. "You're not sure if what? I appreciate cander, and will be as frank as I can be with you as I can be if you are open and honest with me."
Davis flashes pink very briefly when called out on her pause. "Right," she breathes, the clipboard lightly pitter-pattering against her hip as she sits down. When it starts to bounce on her lap, the young pilot lets go of it and instead laces her hands together over it. That's when her knee starts bobbing. "Please don't take this personally," the Ensign earnestly enthuses, leaning forward and fixing the man with wide eyes. "But I just don't know if you can do anything." She gives him that cross between a grimace and a smile, but seems to relax after getting that off her chest. "I really mean that. I don't know. Maybe, y'know, you can," she says, flipping a hand palm-up to her side. The gesture is mirrored on the other side. "And maybe I've got pieces of my brain missing or being crowded out by pieces of bone and shrapnel deep inside, and maybe there's nothing anybody can do." While naturally fair-skinned, she has become moreso since beginning to speak. Likewise, while she began with a strong voice, it ends an a meek murmur.
There's a faint nod offered by the Doctor, "I may not be able to. Physical damage to various memory centers often can't be reversed. That being said, memories are stored in pieces all throughout the brain, based on the sense that would trigger them. As a result, memory loss is often more psychological than it is physical. Then again, amensia, while a psychological phenomena can't be cured in any traditional sense." Byrne replies with a very stoic tone, and then adds on, "Please put the clipboard on the desk." her file is currently sitting on the desk, open, while the notepad is held in his hands, resting on his knee. "What I can promise to do, is try my best to help you recover what you can, and I can also try to ensure you get returned to full duty as soon as possible."
With a quick nod Davis places her things on the desk. "Thank you, Doctor," she says quietly, and then clearing her throat returns to a more conversational volume. "I've never really so much as broken a bone, so this is rather new to me." After a pause like she's done, the Ensign breaks in again. "It's like, everything that was easy is hard, because it was easy. I haven't been even in a sim yet, but that's always going to be hard, no disappointment there."
"It's normal to feel a sense of increased difficulty with even the most commonplace of tasks when memories have been lost. As I've said, memories are stored all throughout the brain, based on the sense we use to access them. Often this can result in a loss of confidence in things we used to be skilled at. In time, your mind will adapt, and the ease with which you perform various tasks will return to you." Byrne replies after jotting down a couple of quick notes, "Tell me, what is the last thing you remember before you were injured?"
Davis nods slowly, listening with an intent gaze. It's the same one she might use with a finance officer describing abritraged securities. Interested, but not 'getting it.' "The last thing I remember," she hmmms, sitting back in her chair. This is something she can wrap her head around. "I remember I was going to try and get scrambled." She leans her head back, eyes closed. Her throat rolls from a swallow. "I think there was an alert." An eye opens. "I mean I know there was, but that's just because I read it since I woke up. But just the… my memories alone, right? I only think there was an alert. Maybe not." The eye closes again, and concern fills her voice. "People were out there flying, and because I ran into a dumb mine a couple weeks before, somebody was either filling in for me or flying without a wingman. Really they're probably better off flying without me," she adds with a verbal roll of the eyes.
Byrne taps his pen idly against the pad, and jots down a few more notes on the pad before glancing up from the page now and again as she speaks. "Yes, just what you actually remmeber. Your mind will try to fil in the gaps, create stories from interpreting the information you've recieved since the incident. Try to filter all that out." he pauses a moment, and pauses in his notetaking, "Why would they be better off flying without you?"
Ensign Hathor takes a moment to respond, her head slowly returning to level. "I like, literally, just got my wings before we came aboard. It was just supposed to be the Squadron's 2-week drill time." She shifts in her seat, changing from the stiff posture of a military appointment to a more casual lean. "I'm an alright pilot, Doctor. I'm almost good in formation. Give me a couple years and I might be flying shows like the Petrels normally do. But my greatest combat credit used to be not having downed any friendlies. Now it's not having downed any friendlies except myself." There's a pause for a sigh, and then she looks up at him from under her lashes. "And y'know what, Doctor?"
Byrne simply listens, with an empathetic gaze that Psychiatrists are trained to project even when they are thinking about what they'll have for dinner. Which isn't to say he doesn't care, just that he knows how to multitask. Once more he jots down a few notes and then pauses, considering the Ensign's words, "What?" it seems like an appropriate response given that she asked what could be a rhetorical question and intends to continue regardless of what he says.
"I kinda prefer it that way," Davis says softly, having waited for the doctor's professional interest to prompt her for more. "It's not that I'm some kind of Toaster-lover." She snorts. "Far from it! Those things deserve to be smashed to itty bitty bit-bits and shoved into the heart of the nearest sun. But if I'm out there and I start getting some raiders stencilled on my nosecone…" The woman throws herself back in the chair, melting into a slump. "People are gonna think I'm good or something, and reliable, not just lucky, and then I'll get some nugget to take care of and…" The rising tension is matched by a quickened pace to her speech, both of which fade in a breath blown through flapping lips. "I'll pull the trigger every time I have a lock," she murmurs, "but all it's gonna do is get someone closer to getting killed because of me every single time."
The Doctor hrms quietly, starting to twirl his pen between his fingers, head tilting to the right just a bit as he considers both her and her words, "You assume that even in success, you would fail? Is this lack of confidence something you've always experienced or is it more recent?" He pauses a moment and stops twirling the pen for long enough to jot a few things down.
"Hunh - No!" comes the reflexive, snorted reaction of disdain. "I'm Davis, okay?" she huffs, splaying her fingers over her chest. "I don't know who you, like, think you're dealing with…" It's about there that, despite her jaw continuing to work, her face registers shock… "but I'm awesome…" recognition… "and anyone who says otherwise is a chav, a liar, or both…" and finally a wry smirk of defeat. More meekly she adds, "I'm just not that awesome at the whole, flying-and-shooting thing."
The response elicits no real reaction from Byrne. He reads people pretty well all things considered. He leans back a bit in the seat and taps at his chin pensively, "So this is more lasting than the incident, you've had a lack of confidence in your piloting skills for a while now?" he nods once and takes a few more notes, "And the fact that you made it through flight school, and your trainers didn't flunk you out means nothing?"
Davis opens her mouth and closes it to think for a moment. "I fly just fine," she decides on, speaking more slowly. "And I can qualify on gunnery. It's when things start coming at me that it all falls apart, I guess," the Ensign says with a shrug.
Byrne jots a few things down again and looks up once more towards Davis, peering at her almost, "Would you rather you not be cleared for duty, until you've gained more experience in the cockpit?" Not that such things are really within his realm to understand or prescribe. Just a question really. "Stress affects us all differently. Perhaps you just need to learn to control it when you feel that you can't control your surroundings."
With knitted brow the young lady considers his suggestion. "N-no," she says with a slow shake of her head. "I don't want to be special. I don't want to be treated special," comes a sudden edit. "I just don't want anyone to get crazy ideas about me just because some shells lined up with some Toasters just right a few times. You need a uniform taken in? Maybe even," she adds with a roll of her eyes, tugging her lapels, "a badly needed redesign? I'm awesome at that. I'm just plain not awesome in the cockpit."
There's a few moments of silence and Byrne offers a faint nod before setting the notebook on the desk, "Alright Ensign, let's start with this. I want you to take a few days, start thinking about what it is that scares you more, that people will think you are better than ou are, or that you actually are better than you are. I also want you to start keeping notes on things you remember. Don't go looking for memories, just write them down as they come. We'll meet again in a week and see if any progress has been made."
Davis tilts her head at Doctor Byrne, or rather his suggestion. "Well, alright," she says when she finally takes a breath. Standing and gathering her things, Davis tells him in a pleasant tone, "Thank you for your time, Doctor. I don't really get it, but I have a feeling that's the point and, hey, I'll try anything once." In just under minute, out in the deck hall, she smacks a palm into her forehead. "Frak."