PLEASE NOTE – THIS STORY CONTAINS REFERENCES TO A SEXUAL ASSAULT.
________
I was thinking which is a sign of intelligence:
I should take these things much more seriously. It is time to replace her—way too much froo-froo for me. I need brass tacks. It is time to find someone to get me through another day without injuring anyone else. Who cares about anyone else? It’s me. How can I stumble to tomorrow without injuring myself today? Is it “me” or “myself?” That is a fine example of the details I must work out before starting a writing career. So much to consider.
English. It’s a skill I must acquire. I shall put it on the bucket list.
I need a bucket.
She reclined, her gaze fixed on the voluminous, disorganized, mangled folder before her. It was a three-inch-thick monstrosity adorned with sticky notes slapped on every available surface. Occasionally, a stray page would flutter to the floor unnoticed. Unnoticed by her, at least. Our conversation meandered down a road to nowhere for the first thirty minutes. Suddenly, with a flourish, she positioned her reading glasses, peering down her nose at a shredded piece of paper. In her customary analytical tone, she queried, “Let’s discuss your medications. How would you feel about that?”
“No. Let’s not do that. Under any condition. Please. They have not changed since we reviewed them a month ago.”
For the record, her name was Ditz. It wasn’t her real name. For reasons that should become apparent shortly, I named her Ditz. Doctor Ditz. She was my psychiatrist.
She successfully ignored everything I said, and we reviewed the boatload of prescribed drugs I was taking. “Zoloft. Fifty milligrams. [A pause until I gave her a bored “yes.”] Vyvanse. Fifty milligrams. [Pause. “Yes.”] Wellbutrin. Two hundred milligrams. [Long pause. Disapproving stare. “Yes.”] Lamictal. Three hundred milligrams. Wow. Tegretol. Forty milligrams. Really? Hmm. Sertraline. Two hundred milligrams. I don’t remember prescribing that. Interesting. I wonder why…hmm. And Lithium? Two hundred fifty milligrams? When did we decide this? [Pause. Shrug.] Risperdal, too? Ten milligrams? Well. Okay. I guess. Cipralex? Cipralex?! Ten milligrams? What? Wait, I have a note somewhere. Where is it? It is here some…oh, fell on the floor. Abilify…. Abilify…Abilify…what’s the dosage? Don’t tell me. I need to find the…okay. Thirty milligrams. Are you comfortable with that dose?
“I’m not comfortable with anything. As of the age of five, I have been categorically uncomfortable with everyone, everywhere, all the time. Therein lies the first problem.”
Ditz, too absorbed in the shred of paper to notice, nodded. “Yes. I see. Yes. Propranolol. Fifty milligrams. Hold out your hands. They are shaking like a leaf. Wow! Look at that. This is bad. Wow. Have you noticed this?”
“Only when I write, type, use my smartphone, pick up a utensil, hold a cup of coffee, button my shirt, speak in public, drive, turn on a light switch, set the timer on the microwave, shave, stop me anytime now, unlock a door, eat soup, use chopsticks, pet the cat, and change a TV channel. To name a few.”
Let us prioritize, Honey. I get disoriented at all the wrong times. I can’t remember where I am or how I got there. It’s a problem when I’m driving. GPS cannot even find me. Voices tell me to visit the White Cliffs of Dover and immediately hop off. I’m too ashamed to look anyone in the eye. There is the fun of vomiting non-stop after seeing someone who has known me for over six months. I lie like hell to avoid revealing any horrendous details of myself. Is it “me” or “myself?” Not that I know any details, what with having no clue who I am, how I got here, or what caused this in the first place. Shaky hands are the least of my issues
“Good. Good. It’s part of the journey. Prozac. Forty milligrams?”
“Yes, yes. The list has not changed. Nothing has changed. Not one thing. You must believe me!”
“Good. Good. Seroquel. Two hundred milligrams. Seems like a lot. Restoril. Ten milligrams. Have you been able to sleep?”
“I try not to. Sorry.”
She nodded. “Yes, I see. Good. Good. Haldol. Fifty milligrams. Has that helped with the voices?”
“Their insults are much more creative. They say hello.”
“Have you noticed any weight gain?”
“I’m up by thirty pounds since last month, which, by happy coincidence, is the last time we reviewed this list of medications—the same list you have in front of you now, the one that, for your convenience, has not changed since the last time we reviewed it which was, in case you’ve forgotten, thirty days ago.”
“Weight gain is a side effect. We reviewed this before.”
At this moment, I was close to catatonic. “We may very well have. It would not surprise me if we did. Anything is possible. I’ll take your word for it. As you can tell, my trust issues have improved magnificently.”
“Have you had any suicidal thoughts recently?”
“Only when we review this list of medications.”
“Yes. I do see. It’s a journey.” Ditz was still staring at the folder. Papers continued to fall to the floor. “Paliperidone? Fifty milligrams?”
“There is that possibility.”
“Olanzapine. Twenty-five milligrams.”
“Why not? You know the lines in the ceiling all go in the same direction.”
“Good. Very good.” She squinted at her list. “Is there anything I’m missing? Anything at all?”
“Tequila drip. Eight hundred milliliters per day. Twice on Sunday.”
Ditz scoured both sides of her list. Having failed to find any mention of tequila, she said to no one in particular, “We strongly suggest you don’t drink alcohol while taking these medications.”
“It was a joke. J, Double O, K. Joke. I attempted to use humor to make comedy. Sorry. I’ll record this as another failed endeavor on my part. As a point of curiosity, do these papers on the floor from my file cause an issue concerning HIPAA compliance? Papers that clearly describe what a train wreck I am. Papers that, once made public, will cost me my job, any chance at a normal life, and my ability to remain a part of society without wearing a straitjacket?”
“I don’t think so. Why?”
“Academic interest.”
“Good. Good. That’s good.” The good doctor sat forward, causing all the papers in the folder to slide out of the folder and scatter onto the floor. She carefully removed her glasses, looked at me, smiled, and became a touchy, feely psychiatrist—the one I was sick of. “How are you feeling?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Tell me why you traveled so much. I think we can learn so much together.”
“Let’s not. Should we go over the list of drugs again? I started getting in touch with my feelings at the mention of Seroquel. I had a girlfriend named Seroquel. Quite a girl. They named bipolar medication after her. I can’t say that shocks me. She was the reason I left the country. She refused to trim her nose hair. It played hell with the vibe. She may have been gorgeous. I do not know. All I could see was a six-foot-high nose and nostrils with party favors hanging out of them.”
She smiled. Her smile made my skin crawl—it would have made your skin crawl—it was so sincere that it was dishonest. I felt like it was a “there, there, it’ll be okay” smile intended for two-year-olds doing their best to go potty but failing badly. She stared at me with that fingernails-on-the-chalkboard smile but did not say a word.
Honey, perhaps psychiatry is not a profession for you. I envision a future with a fulfilling, lucrative, and exciting career in filing. You can start with all the papers scattered on the floor.
After a minute of awkward silence, I gave in. “So, what do you want to do now?”
“How did you feel? Really feel?”
Feel this.
Adopting the tone of a pretentious actor, I said, “How did I feel…? Context. Do you have any? Please help me out here. What’s my motivation? Give me something to work with! Location? Time? Hello? How am I supposed to develop my internal dialogue? I cannot transcend myself without props. I need to be unconscious during my performance. This whole thing needs to be an organic, tubular process. Where’s my character’s center?”
As was par for the course, Ditz went in her direction. “Was it difficulties in your childhood that made you run away? Let that question wash over you and feel the waves of insight. Close your eyes. Feel the answer.”
“I didn’t give the past a thought. It was the difficulties of my present day. Plus, as I’ve said, I cannot remember ninety-seven percent of my childhood. Sorry. On the remote chance you are the least bit curious, the remaining three percent leaves lots to be desired. All I know is the present, at that moment, sucked. I wanted to leave the present. Since time travel was so expensive, I took traditional measures.”
“It was the traumas of your past, wasn’t it.”
I looked around her office. “Hello?! Testing, testing 1, 2, 3. Is this thing on? Hello. Can anyone hear me? I was not considering anything other than my current condition. Believe me.”
“After we uncover your genuine feelings, I think you’ll agree it was traumas from your childhood.”
I looked at the ceiling again. “Am I speaking Chinese right now? It was the nose hair. It gave me nightmares. It was horrible.”
She kept glaring at me with that loathsome, vile, creepy, detestable, disturbing, offensive, exasperating, depressing, blood-bath-inspiring smile. The one that said, “You poor pitiful loser. Oh, I mourn for you so.”
I’m not sure what your thoughts are on domestic violence. I’m against it. I’ve never hit a woman or child and haven’t made any plans to start. But I desperately wanted to slap that smile to another hemisphere.
Ditz eagerly asked, “Would it feel better if we spoke in Chinese?”
“I need a beer.”
She reviewed her folder and discovered there were no papers in it. “We strongly suggest you don’t drink alcohol while taking these medications. It’s not part of the journey. The traumas in your childhood…”
“Okay, fine. Great. I give in. What the hell? Fine. Childhood traumas caused me to travel the world. Okay?”
She thought for a moment. “Yes. I do see. I tend to agree, I think. How would it make you feel if we unpack one of those awful moments?”
“It will make me feel awful. Just awful. Unbearably awful. Ghastly and awful. I cannot face a single awful second of it. Sorry.”
“Let’s talk about the day you were raped.”
Having flopped back in my chair, I gave Doctor Ditz an incredulous glare and said, “Oh, you want to start with one of the happy memories? Clever idea. Remind me how much I’m paying you.”
“You can never put a price on good mental health.”
“Debatable.”
For the fifteenth time that morning, she asked, “How did it make you feel?”
“How did what make me feel?”
“Being raped.”
It took a moment for me to digest that. “Wait. I’m sorry. Did you just ask me how it felt, at eleven years old, to be gang-banged by a bunch of thugs?”
“Violently. Against your will.”
“Oh, no. I was all for it. A wonderful time was had by all. The four of us went to dinner afterward. The restaurant had a lovely selection of Cabernets. Those crazy kids send me nice cards and flowers yearly to mark the occasion. Isn’t that so special? Of course, it was against my will. And yes, to complete your astute assessment, it was violent. Would you like to see the scars? Hold still. Lemme show you. It will be a real treat. Then I’ll be asking how you feel.”
“Yes. Yes. I do see. What was your thought process?”
I paused. “What was my thought process while being gang raped, you ask? That is a great follow-up question. I remember thinking about the math homework I needed to knock off. There was football practice, and I needed to study that darn playbook. Yes, I’m kidding. To my recollection, there were two dominant thoughts. One was, ‘As experiences go, this leaves a bit to be desired. It does not have a high comfort level.’ The other was, ‘The bark on this tree stump that my face is shoved in smells rather strong.’ That’s about it. There are no great insights. No stunning moments of clarity. I don’t remember any revelations worth sharing. Sorry about that. I will try to do better next time.”
“And you didn’t share it with anyone. We should dig into why. Let’s have a ‘why’ journey.”
“You know full damn well why.”
The only person who knew what happened was a farmhand who chased the rape committee away. This sort of assault wasn’t altogether unusual around those parts. He patched me up and agreed not to tell anyone. He didn’t, to the best of my knowledge. I pretended to be sick, hid as best I could, and failed to mention the episode for the next few decades.
I continued, “Here is one reason that might catch you off guard. Rape victims don’t leap to tell the world that they’ve been raped. Why, you ask? It’s embarrassing for us. It’s not something we enjoy thinking about, much less advertising. That is certainly hard to believe, I’m sure. Of course, as you equally damn well know, I did not want my father to know. Why? He detested gay people, that’s why. Why does that matter? Great question. I’m glad you asked. I was convinced my little fun experience automatically made me gay. As you should recall but don’t, that’s why. As a result, if he found out, then he would kill me because his only son was now officially, legally, and certifiably gay. That’s why. I was certain he’d kill me. Yes, you heard correctly. I thought my father would kill me. If I told my mother and asked her to keep it to herself, then I felt assured she would keep the circle of knowledge restricted to the entire school, a twelve square block area around the house, all my relatives, the AP wire, the New York Times, and, much to my regret, my father. I thought the whole episode was my fault. I made the faulty assumption they would believe the same and that I would suffer the consequences of being very humiliated before being exceptionally dead. I’m sorry I didn’t broadcast the news sooner.”
Ditz looked perplexed. “An experience like that has nothing to do with your sexual orientation…”
“Really? No shit. I was eleven and was not filled with insight on the subject. I know. I didn’t do my research. God hadn’t yet created the Internet. There were no books called, ‘Rape for Dummies.’ I don’t remember seeing any retail clerks with shirts say, ‘Ask me about being gang-banged. Violently. Without my consent.’ It was a cruel, cruel world back then.”
“Your father would not have killed you! You must…”
“Well, that’s a relief.”
No, Honey. He wouldn’t have. He would have killed the committee of three. I know that now. I did not know it then. As you also damn well should know, I was already a psychotic, depressed, self-hating, miserable child well before turning eleven.
“Do you feel better knowing your father would not have killed you?”
“Absolutely! I feel four percent better.”
“Good. Good. That’s good. Well, we’re making a lot of progress today. In the journey.”
And, you say that based on what?
Ditz surveyed the papers on the floor. “However, I think I may respectfully disagree with you. How does that feel?”
“I’ll get over the shit.”
“Good. Good. That’s good. I feel that you weren’t running away from your past. That may not be what you want to hear. I understand you may feel that your feelings might be minimized, but let’s put your feelings aside for the moment, and then we can look into how your feelings feel concerning my feelings that your feelings may not be what I feel they should be feeling.
I stared into the abyss. “My hair hurts.”
She returned to her academic tone. “Good. Good. That’s good. I feel you were not running away from the past. You may feel that way, but my feelings feel that you were running to something. Not away. You were running to something. Out there. To something. Not from. Are you able to feel that feeling? There was something out there. You were running to it. To something. Can you feel the difference? Between running to something and running away from something.”
“Yes, thank you so much. I am staggering behind you nicely. Yes, right. I was running to and running from. There’s an incongruence somewhere.”
“Exactly. How do your feelings feel about that feeling?”
“I think, against almost impossible odds, you made a good point. I’m stunned. Since you’re on a roll, tell me what I was running to. Or tell me to what was I running.’ So much to consider.”
She gave me another vacuous, half-baked look of sudden enlightenment. “It was something you…wanted. But…you…didn’t yet…have.”
“My head just exploded. Sorry.”
In a semi-trance, Ditz stared into some mystical half-space and announced, “It was a need…that you…wanted.”
“Should we review the list of medications YOU’RE on?”
She stared at me with a look that said, in the most unambiguous terms imaginable, “Huh?”
She looked at the empty folder. “Do you want to review your list of medica…?”
“NOPE. All good. No problems there. No sir-ee-bob. Tuned up! Runs good!”
She was starting to sound like one of those new-age spiritual lunatics who just dropped eight or nine Quaaludes. “You were seeking that colorful pot of gold at the end of the black rainbow.”
“You back on the pipe?”
“What did you find in that pot of gold?”
“An invoice from you?”
She was still glaring into dead air. “To find the thing that you couldn’t find at home. Because it was out…there… somewhere…else.”
“Perhaps we should open a window.”
She looked at me with the most disturbing smile I had ever seen. “This is where the journey begins. Let’s start looking for the…thing…you were looking for.”
“Right. Right-o. Let me take you to the kennel for the weekend.”
She snapped out of it. “Our time is almost up. Let’s start that journey next session! There are so many issues to work through. Plus, we have all this guilt, pain, depression, and psychosis to unpack. Let’s take this journey together. It’ll be fun!”
“Did you just say digging through my guilt and pain will be fun?”
“It’ll be great.”
“It’ll be something.”
Ditz grinned. “We’ll have to work hard before we can turn your frown upside down.”
“Blow it out your ass.”
I walked to the office door. “I’ll get the tequila drip set up.”
“We strongly suggest you don’t drink alcohol while taking these medications.”
“Goodbye.” I shut the door behind me.
There was something to be said for therapy sessions with Ditz. No matter what was troubling you when you went to see her, you forgot all about it when you left her office because you spent the next week wondering what happened there.
On the other hand, she had a point. For ten years, I traveled the world on the assumption that I wanted to avoid the mess I had made for myself and numerous others in my home country. Perhaps, in my clumsy and chaotic way, I was looking for an undefinable something. Did I find it without knowing, at the time, what it was?
I’m not sure.
But it makes for an interesting story.
—THE END—
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Please read:
People handle traumas in different ways. I use humor. (At least, humorous to me.) I’ve attempted to use a humorous setting to mention a traumatic event. This is an instance of me handling a trauma. Everything I’ve written is a combination of fact, fiction, and exaggeration. However, in the above story, the psychiatrist does not exist. She is a 100% fictional character, and the dialogue between us is completely made up. My real psychiatrists have pulled me out of some very deep holes. I put my life in their hands and will be forever grateful that I did.
Overcoming trauma can be a long journey. You don’t need to grit your teeth and attempt to overcome it yourself.
There are qualified folks who are available to help.
Here are some resources:
For life-threatening emergencies – call 911 or go to the nearest ER. Emergency health professionals have come a long way in treating these matters intelligently and respectfully.
For confidential crisis support, call or text 988.
National Sexual Assault Hotline (RAINN): 800-656-HOPE (1-800-656-4673)
National Suicide Hotline: 800-SUICIDE (1-800-784-2433)
National Alliance on Mental Illness: 1-800-950-NAMI (1-800-950-6264)
Teen Dating Violence & Abuse (Love is Respect hotline): 1-866-331-9474
National Domestic Abuse Hotline: 1-800-799-7233 or 1-800-799-7233 for TTY, or if you’re unable to speak safely, you can text LOVEIS to 22522 or log onto:
To find local mental health services and support organizations, you can go to:
https://www.apa.org/topics/crisis-hotlines
Individual therapy with a qualified therapist or psychiatrist has been invaluable for millions. Group therapy was helpful for me, too, because it’s always nice to know you’re not the only boat adrift in the ocean.
The moral of the story is that if you are one of those boats, you have options—practical ones with successful histories.
SEEMED LIKE A GOOD IDEA AT THE TIME - the book 