“You’ve got to help me, Doc. I can’t get those images out of my head. I get anxious just lying down in anticipation of having the Dream. It’s too much for me. I just don’t know what it means. I can’t live like this…I just can’t…”
The Psychiatrist looked in his watery eyes with the intensity only doctors of the mind can. This had been the tenth session in two weeks for the pair and no progress was being made, and the Psychiatrist knew it.
“Explain the Dream to me again, if you would.”
A tear of desperation exited from the Patient’s bloodshot eyes. His hands moved backwards through his greasy and wild hair. Functioning on even the most basic hygienic levels was difficult for him now, and it showed. The Patient’s clothes had not changed from the last four sessions, an old sweater vest over a wrinkled, stained, and faded black shirt, with some increasingly looking worn corduroys. His image exuded that of sympathy and danger, not unlike a friendly looking homeless person. Being a highly successful author of three popular novels, the Patient was far from living on the streets, but you would never know that after seeing his grizzly, unkempt beard that was once a distinguished five o’clock shadow that only handsome actors, successful authors, and Calvin Klein models could pull off. The Dream had consumed his life. All of his writings from the past three months had all been about the Dream, describing it in every use of his extended and vast vocabulary. No deadlines had been met and no work could be done. He had been pushed to his limit, and then a little further.
Speaking slowly, the Patient said, “Doc, you know every inch of this dream…I have described it thoroughly at least twice each time I’ve come to you…You’ve read my writing, you’ve asked me questions…and yet you have nothing…why?”
The once powerful gaze of the Psychiatrist had moved to the floor. He had no clue why this man was afflicted at such a catastrophic level. He’d consulted with other doctors, done over a hundred hours of research, tried unorthodox techniques, but all yielded no results. “Where the hell is Freud when you need him? Would he even be able to help my Patient?” the Psychiatrist thought. Being almost as exhausted as the Patient, he was working tirelessly to help this poor man. How could he turn him away? Everyone had referred the Patient to him, everyone. Beyond flying halfway across the world only to pay out hundreds of thousands of dollars to another psychiatrist that could be just as clueless as him, he was the Patient’s last hope.
With that, the Psychiatrist excused himself for a moment to retrieve some prescription forms. He thought if my techniques don't work, perhaps some drugs will. He completed a form for an excessive amount of vicodin and returned to the room. Glass was shattered on the floor, along with a trail of blood. The Patient was lying on his desk, eyes flickering in one last attempt to stay conscious. He had broken the Psychiatrist's diploma holder and slit his wrists with the glass. The Psychiatrist stood completely still, eyes wide and mouth agape. The patient slowly propped himself up and mumbled to the Psychiatrist, "You suck."