ten hollow

(i've been reading over this...straight up depressing posts bore the crap out of me. oy, they're no good. so, we'll make this my token sad post for the year. "aww", we'll say collectively, while suppressing the urge to roll our eyes. after this? a non-stop party of mirth. that's right...i said "mirth". who uses that word? anyway).

I.

The parents. They wanted me to be normal. They were never intentionally cruel towards me, but their disappointment was apparent. By 8, 9 years old, I was consciously aware of this. I could see it, their reaction, and I hated myself as a result.

As a kid, I wanted my parents to know me...know who I was...and feel good about that. It never happened. I was never able to feel okay around them. I thought very hard about myself...very intensely...and around the age of 8, I began to feel like an utter failure. I compared myself to the other kids and to my parents desires...and I know: to them, I'm such a disappointment. Some of the structures inside of us, that hold us up, give us form...I think I lost those in that moment. The emotional structures gave way, fell into themselves, eroded whatever confidence had been stored inside of me.

Every expression of difference...me vomiting, me isolating, me getting hurt at school, me talking to objects for hours at a time, me touching walls and doorknobs obsessively...the response was not helpful. "It's a phase. He'll outgrow it." This phrase became my parents rhetorical band aid. I wanted to scream sometimes, articulate what was happening, how turbulent things were getting internally. But I stayed walled off from communication.

II.

Sensory issues. For me, these have slowly evolved over the years. For a period of time, smells are the worst. Then slowly, slowly, that recedes and my ears are sensitive. I hear some weird static everywhere, all the time. I hear high pitched sounds everywhere. For years this happens, then fades. In junior high? I can't be touched. "Please, please," I'm thinking as I roam the halls, trying to avoid any sort of contact. Shoved, bumped into, back getting slapped. Any of this sets of the tactile echo. It starts off soft, but inside of me the feeling reverberates, grows strongly, and there's a nausea at the core of it that amplified until you finally vomit. Hopefully you were heading for a discrete location...bathroom maybe, back of a building if necessary. The touching...it sets of waves inside of you....viscous quantities of ill impressions, watery, sloshing about, intensifying.

The parents say, "Stop vomiting". Or their favorite, "It's a phase". But the phase grows stronger, gets quite a strong hold on your stomach. For most of your high school experience you are battling the touch sensitivity, the nausea that follows. Your parents finally take you to a doctor. He specializes in spiritual crises (what is it with me and bad doctors?) He puts a stethoscope over my stomach and nods and says, "Hmm". He pokes and prods. Finally, he explains that I'm "nervous". He gives me a pamphlet on how to practice Christian Meditation. I Read them. Try them. My body does not listen. I am unstable viscous, sick to the touch.

III.

A very, very painful contradiction around Prom Time. Because I want to go. I've never had a girlfriend before and it would feel nice to do that, go to prom with a girl. You watch classmates, try to pick out someone to ask. You approach, ask. Approach, ask. Again, again.

No takers, you're not going to prom. And you are sad about it. You're also less scared. Not going resolves a potential difficulty. If someone had gone with you...what then? Do you have to tell them before hand that being touched makes you sick? Or can you just wing it and desperately try to hide everything? Which options fixes it so that the other person likes me?

But no one will go with you. You ask yourself in this quite little voice (and it's quiet because it hurts so much to ask this question): will I ever kiss anyone?

So the years like that, the years around 16...nightmare. First experience with that awful contradiction: active libido...aversion to touch. You keep repeating the question: how do i do this? what am I?

IV.

so it has happened that my relationship with my parents has slowly deteriorated. They are genuinely hurt that I'm not "normal". A cousin my age is making 200k a year...has three kids, happy wife. They tell me, "You're smarter than he is! You could be doing just as well as he is, and probably better." These are the pep talks I get. "M? Dating anyone yet? Don't you know some cute co-workers?" They don't understand how hurt I feel about being alone...and how painful it is to hear their questions. They react in horror to my job.... I work graveyard shifts, to avoid light...sleep through the bulk of the day, the hours the sun is out. I have none of what they need to see me as human. We small talk, but they can barely conceal their discomfort around me. They don't understand me, and this wall goes up. The silence between us is thick and painful.

V.

July 4th, I went to a family get-together. Everyone asked: seeing anyone? Still not married? One cousin, my age, asked if I would step outside with him. I went, dreading what was coming. He said he needed to clear up a little rumor. He glared at me: "Are you gay?" I said no. He said, "Well, what is up with you then? You not even trying to get out and meet people. I was talking with some of the uncles, and they think you're a fag. I told them that I would talk to you. I mean seriously, you gotta let us know what's going on." I left...angry, quite embarrassed.

being solitary when you do not want to be solitary, while in the midst of hostile extroverts: bad holiday.

VI.

two years ago, I told my parents that i had received a diagnosis of asperger's, had it confirmed. honestly? i thought they would be thrilled. all of these years, isolating, never having a romantic situation...i thought the diagnosis would help them understand why, make sense of it all for them. now i understand what's been going on, and this means: now i can deal with it.

(this is how i want them to react. my personal reaction: it's devastating. i feel robbed, having gone through all of this just because of an undiagnosed condition. i go bitter for awhile).

the psychologist i now see, the good one...she warned me about how family members react: "i give the diagnosis...i watch the reactions...hope for the best, expect the worst".

so the parents, on hearing the word: they looked uncomfortable. My dad snorted and left the room. Mom tried to explain why this was ridiculous:

"The men in our family have always been quiet types...you just keep everything in. It's normal. It's just genetics. Calling this a syndrome, that's...I don't know. It's crazy. Where are you hearing this?"

"I've just been looking into it. Eventually talked with a professional."

"Well, but those people...that's what they do, M. They label anything they can get their hands on. You go into an office and say, 'Here are my symptoms', of course they're going to conjure up some label. They'll be out of a job if they send people away with no labels. 'Sorry...got nothing...you're free to go'. M...you are shy. People get shy. Doesn't mean there's a 'syndrome'. That really is...ugh...bizarre."

VII.

A year later i brought it up one more time. Mom had been asking questions: are you dating anyone? I mean, what's the problem son? You do know that you have to put yourself out there, right?

I get sick of the endless questioning, so I repeat: I struggle with it because of Asperger's Syndrome. I have a hard time processing social cues, interacting correctly. I tend to get shut out of the reindeer games.

"I don't even know what that means. You've always seemed fine to me. Anyway. You never did tell me how work is going."

"Wait...Asperger's..."

"Sick of hearing about that. Just tell me a little about work."

So now they switch topics when it comes up.

VIII

A few months ago I went home. They love their church...they love it! Big fans of the Jesus. So I agreed to go since it was my mother's birthday. It was my token show of love. "I'll just go through the motions, get it over with." At the end of the service people stood around shaking hands, backslapping. This is not a good situation for me. I leave through a side exit. A reasonable compromise. I'm avoiding a lot of the people, but I was there, at the service...seems like a fair trade off.

We meet up in the parking lot. Mom says, "I wanted you to meet some of our friends. I just don't understand you."

"I was needing some fresh air," I tell her.

"I'm just worried about your anxiety. I mean, if you can't shake someone's hand after church, I don't even know what to call that. Anxiety or...I don't know. Whatever you call a meltdown like that, it's ridiculous."

Dad, for his part, throws out the line of the day...and really, grab a pen, write this one down. It's a classic of Good Parenting. He shakes his head and says "The way you react to things. You just can't be mentally fragile like that.

I'm a grown up, don't need their approval. Don't need the misguided feedback on anything. Could care less about the words. But what it says about how far we've drifted apart...that does hurt. Again, as a kid we were already watching our ability to communicate fall apart. But today it's open hostility, and worst of all: deep disappointment.

We haven't spoken since that day. It's been months. No calls, no e-mails. I think we've crossed into a new territory with a new distance. It's much broader...totally silent.

IX.

But I thought today would be different. Maybe we could at least have one day where the awkwardness is set aside...we just talk, say a few nice things, move on.

It's my birthday. It's almost over, and I didn't hear from them today. It's usually a big deal for them...they are birthday people...they always call, sing. But today it didn't happen.

X.

It's kind of surreal, having idiotic parents, knowing they can be hostile towards small, harmless differences. The fact that difference alone can create so much discomfort for them, to where they can't even communicate...they can only mangle the words into insults and otherwise steep in silence.

anyway. i'm just rambling. i'm dreading, because...my birthday is a preview of the holiday season: I'm not going to have anywhere to go. I spent last christmas alone...that sucked. I'm dreading another one.

Session Five

Mid-way through the fourth session, it's obvious: this is a disaster. I've stumbled into the office of a bad psychologist. There's no possibility of help here.

Unfortunately: I return anyway.

Over the past year, my thoughts have turned increasingly suicidal. My emotions have slowly eroded as a result. I am more numb than depressed, more blank than sad. And finding therapy to be a joke, I have no desire to try another psychologist, to start over with someone new.

So I am here...sitting across from this guy...because the appointment is on the books. It's that simple. I don't know what else to do anymore. I can feel my life...feel the shape of it's future, it's duration...and based on that feeling, my sense is that I am down to a few months. I end up being wrong about this, but my intention at the time: sit through a few more of these sessions...then quit...then wait...then kill myself.

None of which I plan on telling this idiot.

November, 2005

Psychologist Guy: How are you!

M: Terrific!

I'm all smiles.

P: I'm looking forward to hearing your thoughts today...reactions to last weeks discussion.

M: Mmm...I'm still "processing", apparently. No real thoughts to share.

He waits for a bit.

M: You've given me so much to think about. It's all just tumbling around in there, working itself out. Maybe next week I'll have more to say.

Irrationally, I do show up one more time, one week from today.

P: Well, I'm glad you're finding this to be a meaningful discussion. I've certainly enjoyed it. I can't quite put my finger on it, but I really think you and I click, you know? I was touched to hear about your life since college. Alone for all those years...and I respect that. At my core, I'm an introvert as well...and...I don't know. I always enjoy meeting like-minded people.

This is called "building a repore". He's about four sessions too late....and absurdly bad at it.

M: Aww.

P: I gave you a list of emotions last week. Have you thought any more about that?

M: I smell incense. Stroooonnng. Sandalwood?

P: It was. From earlier this morning.

M: So. I'm just a little distracted today. One thing you'll be happy to hear...

P: What's that?

M: I went to the psychiatrist you recommended.

P: You did! Excellent. How did it go?

M: Meh. It was a pez dispenser scenario. She was nice, though. I uttered symptoms. She handed me a prescription. Kind of a typical psychiatrist thing.

P: What did she prescribe?

M: It's one that's both for depression and anxiety.

I name it.

M: I've been on it four days now.

P: Noticing any differences?

M: Seriously?

P: Just...you know, wanted to ask.

M: Thought I'd wait a few weeks on the placebo effect. Try to enhance the realism of it.

P: Hey, it takes real courage to try something new. I'm glad you're trying that.

I blink.

P: Did you bring the emotion list with you today? I have...

M: Wait, wait.

I close my eyes and scrunch my eyebrows down, as if I'm thinking very intensely. I never actually think this way, but it's good theater.

M: Wait. On a tangent here. Your bookshelf....

Eyes still closed.

M: Of the 27 books, 6 of them are about Christian counseling. Interesting. Seven...relationships. With four of them, the titles are so broad that I can't really tell what they're about. Let's call them "self help books", you can correct me if that's off base. Two on Borderline Personality Disorder. Four books by Robert Johnson. Now, I didn't know who this was, so I googled him this week...very popular writer on Jungian theory. Three books on Buddhism. Interestingly, an atlas...I can't quite make sense of that one. Two little rows of handsome encyclopedia volumes. Purr. There's a bunch of little pamphlet things, can't tell what those are about.

I open my eyes.

M: A dictionary. But...telling...no thesaurus. Kudos on the confident vocabulary. And I have to tell you, I find this to be fascinating: no DSM IV. You had it out a few weeks ago, but it's not on the bookshelf, probably in a drawer somewhere. Not a priority resource, I take it.

He looks at the bookshelf.

P: I actually think there are six books on relationships.

M: My eyes were closed!

P: No, I definitely hand it to you...impressive.

But he sounds annoyed. Which says a lot. On the one hand, I am interrupting him and changing topics. That's rude. On the other hand, I am reciting the contents of his bookshelf from memory: that's clinically relevant information. I'm trying to see if he's paying any attention at all.

P: Back to the list of emotions...

He's not.

P: Like I said last week, I use that more than any other tool when it comes to clarifying root causes.

M: I guess I was confused by it. I mean, that's like five whole emotions. I can only count to three.

P: I was hoping you would have given those some thought...been prepared to choose one.

M: Nope.

We do the childish staring thing for awhile. I start rubbing my face.

M: I haven't shaved in a month. Look how manly I am. Beastly.

P: I can tell that this is difficult for you. That list...a seemingly harmless list of emotions, yet there's no doubt: they are five very powerful words. They encompass so much of our past, so much of who we are.

M: Yes.

P:. I like to think of that list as a mirror. When you looked at that list last week, M, I could tell it was a difficult moment for you. Seeing some part of yourself reflected in those words. It's hard, isn't it?

M: Mirrors? Yes they're hard. I mean, they break pretty easy...

P: *sigh* I need you to get past the sarcasm here, okay? I appreciate how tough that can be. In my own life, I do the exact same thing...when I'm uncertain, I use sarcasm like a shield. But this is important. We're talking about confronting these issues head on...

M: You've been mentioning control issues. Is that what you're talking about? I've been confused by that.

P: Confusion is normal, M. Psychological pain...because it's often something that is structured into one's world view, it's almost impossible to gain power over alone. So, confusion is completely normal. Talking...opening yourself up to someone, to their perspective...that's the beginning of change.

M: Fair enough. And you know? I've been talking...but I don't think I've been listening very well.

I'm adorable when I'm cooperative.

P: Hey, that's on both of us. We both have to listen, really hear what the other person is saying. That's therapy...it can be a tough road, and listening can be the toughest part.

M: Okay. So, aside from the emotion list...what's the single biggest thing that I'm not hearing? I've had trouble understanding the big picture here. You've mentioned control issues...as well as a "connecting thread".

P: Definitely. If I remember correctly, I mentioned during a previous session that I primarily work with couples. Marriage counseling has been my focus for quite a few years now. As a result, I think I am uniquely qualified to work with individual clients.

He folds his hands over a knee and waits. I ask the question he obviously wants me to ask...and I manage to do it without rolling my eyes.

M: And why, Doctor, is that?

P: Because I have seen...witnessed first hand...the inner-workings of Relationship. All of the components. Week after week I watch couples interact and I've watched those components work together, work apart...work with one another, against one another. I've seen what connects us to other people, and what pushes us apart. So when I say that I am uniquely qualified to work with individual clients...it's because, in the pain of a struggling couple, I have seen the necessary components for a unified fulfillment of self.

I run this through my head several times. It's gibberish.

P: With you, I'm not hearing that willingness to let people in. To connect and fulfill your inner needs.

Finally, I see where he's going.

M: Oh! I am fucking slow, Doctor. You're talking about "components"...and how those shape our interactions. And I forgot: you're all about Jung. So you're not really talking about "components"...this is archetype stuff, right?

He looks irritated.

P: Just...let me finish what I was saying. With you, I am not hearing a willingness to be vulnerable. When you describe social mechanics...the extent to which you are aware of those, and monitor those...I hear someone who is afraid to lose control. And this ends up going beyond "control issues"...this goes right to the core component...

M: Archetype.

P: Wall...that goes up and keeps people away.

M: Okay. There's a "wall". That's the underlying thread? I've told you that there's a wall. I'm aware of this fact. It's not like a big secret. For my entire life, I've felt most alone when I'm around other people...and I do not want this to be the case. I'm not putting up a wall...it's just there. It's not something I am doing or trying to perpetuate.

P: This is not a blame situation. I am definitely not suggesting that you are "putting up a wall" and should simply "remove it". It takes a variety of influences to build up a strong barrier like the one you've described. Certainly, you're responsible for some things. We all are. Like with sarcasm...that's a wall, right? One you employ intentionally...you use it and are therefore responsible for it. But when it comes to the more fundamental aspects of a psychological difficulty, I think the causes are very complex, nuanced.

M: Demystify. Explicate. I feel most alone around other people. Why?

P: Let me tell you a story.

M: Okay.

P: I don't know if I've mentioned this...but I attended a Buddhist monastery for a period of time.

M: Fascinating.

P: I was a student under the care of a very wise- but very stern- practitioner of the belief. One lesson consisted of this simple request: I was to sit before a stick and meditate. I was to do this for many hours. But there was a catch: upon completing the meditation, I was to answer the following question: am I the stick? Or am I not the stick? And as he left the room, my instructor warned me: "Answer incorrectly, and I will hit you with the stick ten times".

M: That is stern.

P: Hours passed. I meditated. I struggled with the question. To be honest, I was just trying to understand what the question even meant. How could I possibly be the stick? I ran through every answer I could think of...compared them, discarded them. I was torn. Finally, my instructor entered the room. He asked, "Well? Are you the stick? Or are you not the stick?"

M: And you said...

P: "Both". That was my answer. He responded by picking up the stick...and hitting me with it twenty times.

M: Ouch.

P: So I'm curious: how would you have answered the question?

M: I don't know. I think I would have answered with silence. Instead of putting words to my nature...or the stick's nature...I would have just let the guy look, perceive...I would have let the answer speak for itself, in it's just being there. I mean, in this hypothetical, I'm just a student, so I'm naturally going to fuck it up. How am I supposed to know? He's the instructor...he's more equipped to arrive at the right answer...or to avoid the wrong one, which can be just as important. So...I wouldn't say anything. I would just let his trained perceptions do all of the work.

P: Well...okay. That's fine. There really are no wrong answers.

M: I think the guy who hit you twenty times would disagree.

P: Umm...you know, there are degrees of rightness, wrongness.

M: Okay. I mean, I have no idea what the answer is. I'm sure I would have been whacked endlessly at that place.

P: The point is that, prior to my time there, I had never considered the existence of something as simple as a stick. I realized: if a stick is mysterious, how can I even begin to understand myself?

He took the long way around for that one.

M: Okay.

P: I really want to reinforce: there's no blame game here. Why we are the way we are...it's amazingly difficult to grasp, to understand, to gain perspective on. Even the most simple objects around us are mysteries within mysteries.

I could talk about phenomenology. How, when "objects-at-hand" break down, they elicit angst, self-awareness, a painful absence of bad faith. We can go from Kierkegaard's philosophy to Debord's, the Society of the Spectacle...the way we're trapped in this increasingly detached construct of efficiency and it's erosion of meaningful signification.

M: Objects and...yeah. Oatmeal is hard to understand. I mean, this is like 2005. Why are people still eating oatmeal? The consistency of it is unholy. Weeiiirrd.

P: There's that wall.

M: Not a wall. It's a non-sequitur. And that's not really true either. This is therapy...it's supposed to be a safe setting where you can say anything. So I think consternation over oddly-textured food is a legitimate topic. There's no such thing as a non-sequitur in therapy.

I crack up and start rubbing my eyes.

M: Sequitur...very strange word. Say it repeatedly, it almost hurts. Seck...quit...her. Did you know, Doctor, that a needless sequin is a fashion non-sequitur? And a captain who resigns his post is a sea-quitter. A captain in drag who resigns his post: a sequined sea-quitter. And if this captain makes a logical utterance, it's a sequined sea-quitter sequitur. And if he makes a series of such statements, it's a sequenced sequined sea-quitter sequitur. Which means that, if the captain's name is Quinn, you would encourage someone to go and listen to him by saying, "See Quinn's sequenced sequined sea-quitter sequiturs". And...

I stop and fall back into the chair and start crying.

P: I understand this is hard.

M: You understand. It's like we're bonding. Which you alluded to earlier, you being such an introvert and all.

P: That list contained five emotions...

I start internally screaming.

P: When you're around other people, which one do you feel most strongly?

M: We should be a gathering of pull-string dolls. Much, much easier that way. You could pull the string, hear the predictably automated whatever. "Both"...that would be my answer. Hit with stick as needed.

He waits. I grow nauseous on the incense.

Forward Psychiatry: another hypothetical

A client with a history of depression concludes his first visit with a psychiatrist...

Psychiatrist: A new anti-depressant just hit the market. It's supposed to work wonders, so I'll prescribe that for you today.

Client: Great. Any side effects I should be aware of?

P: Subjects in the clinical trials did report a fair amount of weight gain.

C: Weight gain? Won't that make me more depressed?

P: Probably. That's why I'll also be prescribing a second pill. It's supposed to help with the depression caused by the first pill.

C: What are the side effects for it?

P: Imploding diarrhea.

C: Umm...no. I don't think I'll take that one. Or the first one.

P: Resistance? I may have to diagnose you with a personality disorder.

C: What?!

P: Don't worry, there's a pill for that too. You'll love it. And- if you don't love it- I can just increase the dosage.

C: You're really enjoying this aren't you?

P: Yeah. But that may be the Prozac talking.

bird sketch/people sketch

Saturday, november 2007, 3p.m. I'm wedged in the corner of a booth at a bar. The birds (the verbal fragments) that live in my head, the chattery ones, they've driven me out of the house. They flock and talk at the same time and I'm unable to sleep. No rest at home, so I leave and roam. They tag along. They, once I'm seated, line up on my arms, shoulders. Some perch on my head, others hop about the table. They take turns whispering at me. One says, "Tones are homes for lonely gnomes when bones have flown the river" Another replies, "Oh my, o rover alone." They bunch up and join in: "homes are bone and we the marrow...walls, the stitch of skin...chimneys spewing lingual haze as fences fence us in" I don't really like being lectured, so I talk back. I hunch up and say, "The idiom sum, iridium fun, his id and rum were broken thumbs. O rover alone and marrows and bones, you glow like coal when burning." They blink, so I keep going: "Anyway. You circling word-mongers are a splintered soup of coarsely knitted tailors. Thick-necked risks with game-hen fists." They continue to wait. I spout: "Swingery lingo...lilting and wry...idioms, axioms, maxims and rye." Finally, they back off for a bit. This bearded guy walks into the bar and he has a voice like a door that won't open. I think about how flint is rent the fire spent. The TV says, "New spacewalk to begin shortly", so I imagine short guys in fish bowl helmets wearing blue and portly shoes. They're on the news. The feathered grouplings digress: "Oh yes. You're normal. You're weathering well and tipsy. You're tripped up on this word 'idiom' today. Iridium. Ear idiom. Hum and rum and fur and purr. You can perjure a merger. You can wickwords well, but faintly." I ask them if birds ever murmur, because "murmur" in reverse is "rumrum" and that's how altered I get when I trip and get wordsy on the rye. (And that's it...the birds can't respond because the bartender walks over and says, "no pets allowed"; finally, they're quiet. And maybe that doesn't actually happen, but it seems like a funny possibility). I close my eyes and try to focus on the human birds, the people around me in the bar. Conversation seeps into my mind like narrow, twisted incense. From the table next to me: "Claremore is a different market. You can get away with more in Claremore than you can in Tulsa." Someone else at the table uses the word "housing", then the first guy says, "If your house sells for more than you paid for it, that's capital gain". I then learn more than I ever wanted to know about the tax implications of capital gain. Bikers...a family of them...sit at the booth in front of me. Mom, dad and three little kids, they're all wind-blown, sun-burnt and decked out in leather. The youngest of the kids, he's two or three, turns around and stares at me. Mom turns around too and says, "I'm sorry. He's probably going to stare at you for awhile. He does that." My beer is inert. I keep touching the bricks on the wall next to me. Biker Dad, talking about the little stare-bot: "Are we just going to let his hair grow forever? Is that the plan?" Mom defends the hair; dad responds, "That's fine. I'm just sayin' is all." He pauses, sighs a big sigh and says, "Your way is always the right way." Mom says, "That's right." Six fraternity-esque individuals drink beer in front of a huge tv. They nod a lot and blurt sports-oriented monosyllables. "Pass." "Run." "Go". Biker Dad to his wife: "Don't speculate. You don't know. You're getting yourself worked up over nothing." He's quiet, then he says the phrase, "Civil War re-enacters." I try to figure out what this means. Then three guys in Civil War costumes walk by and take a table. The "housing" people proceed to have an hour of very structured small-talk. Proper. Detailed. Almost educational. The little stare-bot starts to hop up and down. Biker Dad says, "You wanna get down and boogie? You wanna be in funky town? Yeah, you can dance. I don't think anyone will mind." I get loopy on the beer. I go into my stares and I have to catch myself, sort of consciously talk myself out of the bricks. It's like a landscape where the closer you look, the more detail there is and the harder it becomes to see the landscape. An eye-magnet of brick wall pointilism. The table of frat-birds: "See this shirt? I haven't washed this shirt since the USC game." His friend says, "Dude...we lost that game." First guy looks confused for a second, then says, "Right. I washed it that night, after the game, and haven't washed it since." Then all of the birds diminish. The mind ones, the real ones, all of them. I ask to pay up, hand over a debit card. On the bill, I write the tip...the amount...and on the back: "O rover, o rover alone."

Fourth Session (part 2)

i've moved this second half into the initial post, combined them.

Reverse Psychiatry: a hypothetical

A client arrives for her first appointment with a psychiatrist.

Psychiatrist: So, what has brought you here today?

Client: It's a little unusual. I wasn't sure where else to go.

Psychiatrist: That's okay. We can just talk about it and see what happens. What's the problem?

Client: I am happy.

P: Oh my. How long has this been going on?

C: For as long as I can remember. My entire life.

P: A chronic condition.

C: I believe so.

P: Does the happiness feel euphoric or manic in any way?

C: No, no. Nothing like that. I just feel...I don't know. Content.

P: Wow. Well, I'm glad you've decided to seek help.

C: Me too. I knew it was time. I've always felt this happiness sitting there inside of me...I just never knew what to do about it.

P: Before seeing a professional, a lot of people will try to fix things on their own. So I'll just ask you directly: have you self-medicated?

C: I am ashamed to admit it, but yes. I've tried to induce sadness.

P: What was the method?

C: Oh, a variety of things. Alcohol. Poor eating habits. Russian literature.

P: I see.

C: And the result is always the same. I'll think, "Hey, with each experience I learn something new. I'm a better person for it." No matter what, I end up feeling so...hopeful.

P: That must be very disconcerting. The good news is that, with recent advances in medicine, symptoms like hope and optimism are easily treatable.

C: Really?

P: Yes. A variety of depressants are currently available.

The psychiatrist reaches into his desk and holds up a sample pack.

P: We'll start you on this one. There may or may not be short-term side-effects...nausea, dizziness, insomnia, the usual stuff.

C: And if if the pill works, what will happen?

P: Within a few weeks, you'll start to feel a little "down". You'll recover briefly only to experience the onset of generalized doubt. Your job will feel pointless. Your spouse and children will feel like strangers to you. You'll begin to suspect that there is no meaning in the universe, that it's all just random. And so on. After that, you can expect sudden outbursts of crying followed by two- to three-week bouts of depression.

C: That is such a relief to hear. I've just...I've never felt normal.

P: Not to worry. We'll start the meds and you'll be feeling worse in no time. Take 50mg twice a day and call me if there aren't any results.

C: Oh, I'm sure this will do the trick. I'm so excited.

The psychiatrist stares.

P: Let's make that 100mg.