How To Interpret 'I Give Up The Treatment Not Them' In Psychology?

The seventh time Claire Fisher bailed on our marriage license appointment, I finally cut her out of my life—for good. From then on, if she was at a party, I wasn't. When she was scheduled to perform at our college's anniversary celebration, I made sure to leave early. The moment my company announced a collaboration with hers, I resigned without a second thought. Even on Christmas Eve, when she showed up at my parents' house with gifts, I slipped out with a half-hearted excuse about "visiting a friend." I blocked her number. Deleted her from my contacts. Burned every bridge and salted the earth behind me. No calls. No texts. No social media. I didn't reach out. She couldn't reach me. Simple as that. For the better part of my life, I was hopelessly in love with her—waiting on her, caring for her, putting her first in every way that mattered. I gave her all of me without ever holding back. But after the seventh time she left me sitting alone at the City Hall, something inside me broke. I was done. If that meant spending the rest of my life alone, so be it. Better that than sitting in an empty apartment, listening to the silence, holding on to hope for someone who never planned to show up.

After being rushed to the hospital and brought back from another relapse, I vaguely heard my family arguing. "This is already the second time this month. When will it end?! Why isn't he dead yet?!" "Mom, don't say that! I've decided, I'll start working right after graduation to earn money!" My dad scolded my older brother, "But you have such good grades. You've already secured a spot for postgraduate studies. You should keep studying, let us take care of the money!" I lay on the bed, crying silently. After three years of being tormented by illness, I couldn't keep going anymore. This time, I chose to let go.

On New Year’s Eve, I ran after my sister, Yelena Smith, who had left the house in anger. However, a bunch of thugs dragged me into an alley. The torture ripped me apart, both inside and out, and I had been living with severe PTSD ever since. I tried to hurt myself countless times. My sister would grab my hand as I held the knife and drive it into her own body. It was as if she was punishing herself. For every cut I made, she gave herself two. Our blood would mix while she held me and cried. “Felix, please! I’m begging you. Stop hurting yourself! “I swear I’ll heal you!” After that night, my sister, who had always been careless and aimless, seemed to become a different person. She burned her racing cars, which she used to be so proud of, to ashes. She also started studying, which she used to hate. It took her five years to become a chief psychiatrist. However, just when I was finally starting to get better, I heard voices outside my door. “Miss Smith, your acting’s too convincing. If I hadn’t known the truth, I would’ve never thought that you hired those thugs. “To avenge your step brother, you’ve been interfering with Felix’s recovery with medication while guilt-tripping him with love just to make him suffer. Aren’t you being too cruel?” My sister let out a dismissive snort. “He bullied Julian like that in the past. He deserves every bit of this. “But I know my limits. Felix is still my biological brother after all. I’m just teaching him a lesson. I could never bring myself to make him end his life.” I felt like I had fallen into an ice-cold abyss. I even forgot to breathe for a moment. Everything turned out to be my sister’s punishment all along. That night, I dragged my broken body up to the rooftop. ‘Yelena, you don’t have to punish me anymore this time,’ I thought.

During the holiday, my husband and I attended a free health screening organized by our local community clinic. The doctors diagnosed me with late-stage lung cancer. But after a follow-up examination, I learned the truth—the hospital had mixed up the test samples. The one who actually had lung cancer was my husband. We had always had a loving marriage, so I rushed home in tears. On the way back, I had already made up my mind to use every cent of my savings to pay for his treatment. But the moment I reached the door, I heard our son's worried voice from inside. "Dad, it's already late-stage cancer. Treatment is just going to be a money pit." I was about to push the door open and tell them not to worry about the money when I heard my husband reply indifferently, "It's fine. Your mom's already terminal. Treatment would be a waste anyway. I'll convince her to give up." I froze on the spot. Without a word, I slipped the bank card containing 300 thousand dollars back into my pocket. Fine. Wonderful. Then give up treatment.

Marcello, the Don of the Valence family, has severe PTSD. He’s cold, and he pushes everyone away. But I can hear his thoughts. I know about the possessiveness hiding under that cold front. When he says, “Stay away from me, I don’t want to see you,” what he’s really thinking is: Lilian, don’t go. Don’t leave me. I really need you. Six years of marriage, and I’m used to him never meaning what he says. But tonight, at the family banquet, his assistant is on his arm again, instead of me. I ask Marcello, “She’s standing where the Don’s wife should be. You got nothing to say about that?” Impatience flashes across Marcello’s face. “You’re twenty minutes late, Lilian. You have no right to question me.” “Either go stand in a corner, or get the hell out of my estate. Now.” A second later, his thoughts crash into me: Lilian. Get mad. Slap her. Scream that you’re my wife. Prove you love me. I need to feel secure. But this time, seeing the smirks on everyone’s faces, I’m just… tired. I take off the diamond ring, the one that marks me as the Don’s wife. “Since there’s no place for me here, let’s get a divorce.” Perfect timing. The hospital is sending me to London for a placement. I leave tomorrow.

While we're camping outdoors, my boyfriend, Preston Bassett, hands his cup to his childhood friend, Ashley Rankin. Instead of making a scene, I simply tell him I want to break up. "Just because I'm letting her use my cup?" "Yes." Rather than getting mad, Preston laughs. "Fine. Let's break up then. But try to stand by your decision this time. Don't come crying to me for a second chance before we've even packed up the tent." His friend chimes in from the side, "Maybe you should just apologize. If you guys actually break up, you'll be crying before you know it." Preston looks at me like he couldn't care less, a mocking smirk on his face. "She's just bored out of her mind and is looking for trouble. "Back then, she was even willing to fall out with her family just to move to this city and be with me. I'd be impressed if she could keep this up for two days." He's right. I have loved him for three whole years, and I have willingly given up everything for him. What he'll never understand is the fact that jobs can always be replaced, and the wrong person is always someone worth walking away from. I have already submitted my resignation and received an offer from a new company. So, as soon as the handover is complete, I'll leave. This time, no matter what happens, I am never looking back.