Foul Condition
The ticking on the clock goes by each second, as I sit on my leather couch across from my patient with tears streaming down her face. A trickle of rain lightly hits the window pane. I listen to her intently while she talks about how her boyfriend cheated on her, in the pit of my stomach I feel a weight of disgust for the man who did that to her. While on the surface I do my best to appear professional. As what I tell my other female patient who has been cheated on, I provide them my comment and then I provide the facts, followed by reassurance they are better off without them right now. These sessions are like the weather when each patient comes in, they pour their emotions onto me with sadness, anger, or irritation. Then, once I tell them what they need to hear there is a sign of hope glimmering in their eyes like a sunshine coming out after the rain has passed. I want to help my patients feel better and know they can get through their issues. For my next patient though, it may be another case…
As my next session is about to begin, a raindrop hits my left cheek bone then I notice my ceiling has a minor leak. I have called numerous times to get this fix, so my patients won’t be distracted by the leak in the ceiling. I take a deep breath and I resolve the issue by placing a bucket underneath the minor leak. After this, I call in my next patient, his name is Boris his issue is a piece of work I am still unraveling since I’ve only seen him for five months, “Boris, how are you doing?” As he sits across from me, he barely looks me in the eye to tell me he is well though his body language says otherwise, “I’m fine.”
“Boris, I want to remind you it is okay to share what is in your mind and how you’re feeling. This is a safe place.” I look straight at him with a hope he will see the sun rise again,. What I wish to see in Boris by the end of his treatment is he will not go back to the hospital, we have come this far since the rest of the doctors and I tested him to understand what mental diagnosis he may have. It started last winter when Boris’ mother gave me a call and asked if I could run some tests on him because when he came to visit her and her husband something was off about Boris. From what she described to me it was a complex process, so I recorded our sessions to see how Boris and I progressed in the future.
He sat across from me which I explained how the process would go with me, “Boris, I want to let you know before we begin this process that I’ll be recording our sessions. This will keep track on how we are improving and what we could do better if anything goes wrong.”
Boris smiled at me in response, “It’s okay, nothing to hide here.” He seems to be distracted but it could be just nerves.
I grabbed my pen and paper, then hit the record button, “So Boris, before you came I asked you to fill out a paper rating your emotions on certain situations as well as stating your interests. I see here,” looking down at the paper, “you like to go to old record shops?”
In reply Boris enthusiastically replied, “Yes! It makes me feel safe!” As he said that he spread his arms out wide, I continued to ask the series of questions and I started to notice the possible symptoms of a diagnosis on what he could have. But, it’s too soon to tell what it could be from the first session.
“Boris?” He looks up with his glossy eyes staring straight at me not knowing what to say, a depressive episode is occurring in front of my eyes he looks like he doesn’t want to be here. His eyes are red and swollen. I want to know his thoughts, is he feeling depressive? Does he want to commit suicide?
“I can’t do this.” He rushes up to the door rushing pass me as I stand up to stop him, everything inside of me froze as I stared at him exiting my office. I stopped the recording that sits next to my chair. There must have been something that went wrong in our sessions, yet everything seems as if he is improving in our sessions. I look over my notes these past couple of months, along with the assignments I have given to him after our sessions and everything seems to be consistent based on the diagnosis. A thousand things begins to race through my mind, is Boris going to hurt himself? Was this his plan all along? What can I do to help him get pass this?
It has been a month since our first session together, there were moments where Boris showed distraction and hyperreactions though it’s not enough to state the diagnosis yet. The past month Boris was given assignments to do outside of our sessions, it was a test to see whether he has the diagnosis I have in mind. It is to add into his routine to write on an index card that day what he’s feeling, “How are you doing, Boris?”
He was biting his nails trying to make eye contact to me, “I’m great. I did,” as he takes out a notebook, “the assignment you wanted me to do. It’s not an index card, but I’ll get some today. Do you want me to read some aloud?” I usually prefer my patients to follow the assignments I direct them to do. Especially in the case where I needed to know what he was diagnosed with. It did irritate me a bit, I breathed in and responded, “Boris, how about I take your notebook and I have some index cards, you could try the assignment again it is just to track your moods.” I noticed he let a small sigh out, hesitant to give me his notebook, “I will not show this to anyone it is completely confidential.”
Boris’ eyes immediately switched from a high euphoric state to an irritable state, “Fine. Here. You can have it.” Then, when I opened his journal there was a day, he wrote This world is a horrible place, I wish it was only filled with good…I’m not good. Nobody is good. Who is anyways? With that sentence, I clarified with Boris about that day and it was when I gave my final diagnosis to him. Depressive episodes with hypomania known as Bipolar Disorder.
After seeing my last patient for the day, all I keep thinking about was how I can help better Boris from his manic episodes of depression when it clouds over him. The rain has continually been pouring non-stop since my first patient came in today. Once I was told by my parents when I was a young boy, I would always have a care for every little living thing including people, I would go around carrying a toy stethoscope pretending to be a doctor. I would go up to my grandpa whenever he doesn’t feel well to let me check his heartbeat for any sign of “sickness” with my toy stethoscope, my grandpa would happily play along asking me questions how he could get better. Then after a few months rolled by, I remember clearly on a Saturday afternoon I saw my mom sobbing to my dad in his study room I didn’t quite understand what had happened until my dad saw me peaking inside… he came out to tell me the news of what happened. My grandpa died of a stroke in the middle of the night, it had tremendously upset me because I thought I cured away his pain. Ever since that moment it felt as if the cause of his death was my fault. People keep telling me it’s not my fault I was only eight years old, but until today it still somehow feels as if I could have done more to save my grandpa from dying. From there on, I felt as if it was my duty to cure people which has given the motivation for me to study people’s brains and their behavior to help them fight their mental illness. My family thinks I may be a little crazy for trying to cure everyone and thought I should be the one getting help from a psychologist. I didn’t listen to them, I’m not one to ask for help from others because I am completely fine.
As I sit at my table, I contemplate how Boris’ disorder could affect the other urges for him to seek out dangerous solutions without thinking of the consequence. I’m mind-boggled what has happened to him, he has given signs of improvement after I indicated his diagnosis then prescribing the medicine he needs to take.
I grab my pen and my notebook containing possible ways to present to my patients how they can cope through their mental struggles. While I start to write I can feel my eyelids beginning to get heavier by the minute, pen slowing down my movements on each word I write on the dry notebook sitting in front of me. With every inked word I put on the paper minutes fades away where everything motions into a pitch black abyss.
I stand on the top of a green mountain cliff; the sound of blue ocean waves hits the grey edged rocks lingers in the cloudy Scotland air. Along with the musky smell of ocean salt triggering every nostalgic memory throughout my body. It’s been a while since I was last here, before everything impacted my life today. The sea breeze passes through my face, and then something echoes in the mid-air calling my name, “Doctor Chase! Help me!” Where was it coming from? I look around the surrounded area for any sign of life, there was no one here with me I hear the voice again, “Help me, Doctor!” And then, someone appears near me on my right it’s my patient, Boris, his face has a pale-flushed daunting appearance with patches of dirt covering his cheeks and neck. His jeans and shirt are torn from the seams with dirt all over of them too. Then, he flashes out suddenly appearing right in front of me, “HELP ME!” I start to turn and run, except I didn’t hear the ocean of the waves hitting the rocks anymore. The smell of the musky ocean salt waves doesn’t linger along my nose anymore, instead it is the smell of pine woods.
It appears to be we are at a forest, what is missing are the crickets and the owls making the night sounds leaving an eerie silence throughout the woods. All that hovers over the forest is the glow of the moon shining on us. I hear the voice again, “Doctor…help me.” I look to my left, then quickly look to my right it seems like Boris needed my help I called out, “Boris! Where are you? Let me help you, we could figure out a plan to help you be better you just got to let me help!” No one answered, just the forest trees still as a lifeless statue. Where is he? I start to have this feeling someone was following me, so I start to walk quicker than the pace I am walking. I hear a branch snap behind me, my heart starts to pound which I begin to run away from whomever is following me. I look back to see who it could be, when I face back toward the direction I am walking to Boris stops me, “DOCTOR! WHY DIDN’T YOU HELP ME?!” His face covered in holes and maggots crawling out of them with white pigmented eyes staring right at me.
Abruptly, my head raises up while I look around the room to see if anyone is with me, my heart still pounds from the terrible night I had. I keep repeating to myself it was just a dream, it was only a dream. Sweat drips down the side of my temple, the paper of my notebook sticks to my hand I have been consuming my time trying to save Boris it affected my psychological state of mind. I still think about how Boris needs my help that he cannot be left alone right now. My options are to call the police to notify the issue, though Boris may lose his trust with me as his therapist. The other option is to not call the police and to go find him myself. Maybe my underlying conscience is telling me I need to be the one to help Boris before it’s too late.
I walk down the building stairwell, then notice another worker who I’ve known for some time stepping outside his office while I attempt to quickly stride pass him. “Chase! Long time, no see!” He is not a therapist though we do catch-up from time to time, though today is not the day to play catch-up for me.
“Oh, hey Ben.” Forcing a smile and concern to him, I always thought small talk can be a waste of time especially in moments like these. Ben has an appearance where good aura always surrounds him, the only issue is those are the people who you should be most concerned about. So, when he asked me, “You’re a specialist right?”
“A therapist.” I’m not exactly sure where he got the idea of a specialist from, but its common for people to get confused with the title name.
“Right! I thought so, my friend is searching for one to talk to,” before saying the next few words he steps closer to me, “do you think you could help him out?”
What I don’t understand with people whispering about having to get help is how it may seem like a horrible thing and embarrassed to get the help they need. As a therapist, I witness numerous shames from people when they say they need the help from me which is common. But asking for help is not a shameful thing it only means your recognizing the healthy change they want to make. I see it as bravery coming from those patients. “I would have to do a diagnosis on him first to know what he needs help in,” I proudly hand Ben my card, it warms me to know how people put their trust in me as well as the pressure to help them out in their mental cases, “Here’s my business card, tell your friend to give me call whenever he’s ready to make an appointment with me.” Now, I need to find Boris before he does something, he may regret…something it could impact me.
On the way to Boris’ place my mind was going at a thousand speed thinking about whether he has not done anything idiotic. Not only will it impact me, but it will impact his family members given the fact I’m on the line to saving his life. My heart is pounding again, I keep telling myself to breathe and to focus on the road because the last thing Boris needs is to find out his own therapist got into a car crash on the way of searching for him. I concentrate on the wet road ahead of me looking for Boris, I doubt he will be at his home in his current state of mind right now. I drive towards the local music shop he says he stays in whenever he feels down on these types of days. Music is what distracts him of the pain and I admire that because most of my patients turns to alcohol to distract them from the pain. That is what gives me hope for him to be saved.
The music store is still open, I walk in hearing the chime of the bell ring letting everyone know I am here. This time, it didn’t bother me who saw me or who wanted to talk to me I need to get to Boris. I look around the store, there is no sign of Boris—could this be it? Am I too late? Is my nightmare coming true? A million things are racing in my mind, I take a deep breath telling myself that I will help him and I’m not giving up. I’m his therapist which he expects for me to not give up on him. I reach for my phone hidden in my pocket looking for Boris’ number, I save my patient’s numbers in case of any emergency the last thing they will do is call 911—one ring, two ring, three rings—no one answered I left a voicemail, “Boris, whatever it is you may be thinking of doing please think it through. You’re worth living in this life, we can figure something out in my office to fix what you are going through…please call me back as soon as you hear this message.” The moment I left that voicemail I look down at my phone feeling the heart beat loudly out of my chest, I can feel my hands shake realizing how much is at stake here though knowing it is up to him to decide whether he wants the help from me or not.
It’s almost midnight I’m not sure where else he may be at this time of the night, so I go back into my car to grab the stack of papers sitting in the passenger seat. Containing the papers Boris has filled out in our first session together and the questions I have asked him, it also contains the index cards he filled out prior to our sessions together to record any mood swings. Then, on the index cards has a different penmanship on how he wrote about his day when he mentioned his sister…I missed that, how did I miss that? I called the cops thinking how this may end badly, I explained them what could go wrong if we don’t send immediate help at the possible location Boris is at.
I arrive to where Boris wrote under one thing that irritates him the most: his parents going with my gut it is more than irritation but probably hatred. My heart is pounding louder than ever, the last thing I want is for Boris to hurt himself and to hurt anybody else. I drive up to Boris’ parents’ house, the police weren’t there yet I noticed there are two cars in the driveway I’m not sure if Boris owns one of them. While I sit in my car, I see Boris’ mom who looks frantic then I see Boris close behind her he has a gun towards her. Where are the damn police? I get out of the car, run to the front door, and it was locked. At this point, I may look unprofessional but the last thing I want is to lose an individual who is worth still living in this life. I went over to the window of where I saw Boris’ mom and Boris with a gun pointing to her, I can hear Boris screaming, “Where’s my money?!” His voice sounds different, unlike the Boris sitting across from me in my office. One of the triggers for this diagnosis is places, people, and living situations. I hear someone answering which I’m assuming it’s the father, “Boris, we don’t know what you’re talking about. Put the gun down!” Then, I hear a shot fired with a Boris’ mom screaming.
Finally, the cops arrive I see them heading my way, “Officers, there’s a man in there who may be hurt-” instead of going into the house, they pull out their handcuff assuming I may be crazy. They tell me to put my hands behind my back. For the first time, I listen to someone and as they put me in handcuffs, they tell me my rights and the last thing I want to do is to disobey the law. I keep my eyes on the window, I can’t see Boris’ mom anymore, but I see Boris heading to the window shutting the curtains. While shutting the curtains he gives me a half smile knowing he will be getting away with what he is about to do. The cops walk me to the car making me feel defeated, then suddenly we hear two-gun shots fire behind us. As a therapist and an individual, this will be the first and last mistake to ever ignore an advice from others and from myself.
