Drowning in sorrow
“Lynn?” a momentary pause, “Hi. Come on in and have a seat. How are you doing today?”
The short brunette obeyed, just as she always had, all of her life. She didn’t want to though, someday they’d see-- someday she’d show them by rebelliously not doing as they asked. Before she could answer, he blurted out:
“Now let’s see here… Yup! OK! All set? Brutus says you’ve been a little down lately. Would you like to talk about it?”
She had just met the Doctor but she had already concluded this was nothing more than a blatant waste of time. He wouldn’t understand, he couldn’t. Apparently no one could. Of course she wanted to tell him of the horrors that raged inside of her mind; she just couldn’t. Maybe someday she would grow strong enough to freely associate, allowing herself to relax and explore the unconscious realm within, sharing openly whatever came to mind no matter how trivial or embarrassing.
“I guess.”
“Well, where should we start? Take me verbally somewhere where you feel comfortable, maybe like your room or a favorite spot. That will get the ball rolling.”
The sheer audacity of that man! As if her special place/ her only haven, her unconscious; the place where her thoughts, wishes, feelings and memories dwelled-- could simply be described by words. Oh the prison of words. Inside of her mind she screams: let me out of here. I have enough problems without wasting all this time. But on the outside she smiles courteously. She knows that this delay is dangerous-- if she doesn’t answer he’ll think her insecure and unable to trust, and what if she answers wrong?
With a mellow tone she responds: “There’s a bench by the overlook at my house, it’s real pretty there. Sometimes, I like to just look out at the lake and watch the water, while I do my homework.”
She smiles. She visualizes her spot-- yes, perhaps this is close to her unconscious. But what she really needed to say is that she goes out there every night, especially when dad’s had a long day. She likes to watch the murk-ridden water. It’s ripples hold a certain mystery to life. She dreams of going out with that tide. There, life smells too; it has the distinct odor of freshness, of freedom. She loves that water-- that view. The sun always sets though, but she’s used to that; nothing good can stay. No, only the bad seems to persevere.
“Good. Good. So we’re at your special place, where you feel comfortable. Now, close your eyes-- Keep them closed. We have to stay there! What else do you feel?”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you feel happy?”
Does she feel happy? What kind of shit is that? Aristotle says happiness, has to be complete/whole to exist. Aristotle says happiness has to be in a perfect state. Since life is to be considered imperfect, without exception, due to our unrealistic expectations and limited perspectives then… death can be the only means of true happiness.
Since death is a state of non being, non consciousness; then, how can we ever be happy? What kind of fool would ask a question like that? Is he some kind of Buddhist? A Buddhist that believes in extreme moderation and self- control? A man that decisively structures his life around precepts such as: not wanting and doing without... Is he in desperate hopes of escaping the hedonistic treadmill? Her lack of response in turn motivates the Doctor to continue on.
“Do you feel sad?”
With all of her might, she attempts to banish the anxiety arousing thoughts and feelings from her consciousness-- she has to repress her inner desire to say yes, at all cost. She goes to acknowledge him with an affirmation, but something (her ego), unconsciously switches this unacceptable impulse into its opposite (reaction formation).
“No. I don’t really know what I feel.”
What a blatant lie! She knows exactly what she wants to say. She is aware of exactly what she feels and the words sit on the tip of her tongue, she’s barely able to hold the urges back. Feelings are perhaps the only things she does know. To much she is naïve and ignorant, as to the ways of people in the world, but to her own self this she is not blind. She governs her life by her inner feelings. She makes sense of the outside world by knowing herself and what impulses she feels. She looks for external cues from others but ultimately she utilizes the most intricate details of all of her own experiences in a desperate effort to understand others and their motivations. She is failing. She feels lost.
She felt so confused. She wanted to know so many things. Like a meaning for it all. Why was she here, did she have purpose? What purpose was being made for her being alive? Was there a pre determined reason why she was here? Did a superfluous other construct a pre ordained reality prior to her birth? Was she a responsible agent of herself or for another?
Did her actions and her struggles matter or where they all for a loss? Was she constructing her own meaning as she lived in each action and made each choice throughout her life? She longed to ask the doctor, but she couldn’t her mouth went dry.
She longed to ask how does one prove existence, for it was driving her mad. Madness yes, madness and genius are bred of the same branch. Different, anything different must not be good. Anything different gets kicked out of mainstream society, ostracized, and eventually forgotten.
He would surely tell her that existence was proven through the identification process. During childhood the super ego developed, with values from parents, and these included ideals of God… or, quite to the contrary, he would affirm the Cartesian Truth… I think, therefore I am.
He doesn’t strike one as the religious type, so probably more the second. Yes definitely the second this is a liberal man in front of her, of that she is most certain. The latter would then lead Lynn to an ingenious line of questioning that would go something like this:
“Then you know you exist because…”
“I’m conscious.”
“And you know you’re conscious because?”
“I’m aware of my surroundings.”
“And how do you know you are accurate at all in your
awareness?”
“Because I feel…”
“Are you stating the instability of a mercurial mind, the everfleeting moments of passions and emotions, are
the platform upon which you build your faith and certainty of a
greater reality? Beware of the fallacy of misplaced
concreteness, dear Doctor.
It's far too often that the mighty have
fallen to that fatal flaw of hubris, the inflated ego. Placing too
much confidance on a single individuals emotionally swayed
interpretations of life can be extremely destructive.
We are
We are
plagued by our own narcissism, Doctor. Our expectaions and
unrealistic demands blind us to a reality very independent of our
own personal experience. The world frequently doesn't concern
itself with our feelings and frequently frustrates our most basic
needs."
"Do you really desire fluctuating feelings to govern our
existence? Let me reroute where I’m going with this. You know
that you ’are’ quite simply because your mind tells you this
much, correct? Your consciousness tells you that your
perception of being is in fact ’being’?”
“I suppose.”
“Then how do you interpret any perception?”
Thinking carefully the Doctor would surely return with: “I feel it is correct-- I feel that it is real, therefore it is real.”
“So everything that you believe to be or feel to be, in ‘fact’ Is?
Be careful Doctor you’re nearing unforgivable ignorance here.”
Lynn would warn him of his fatuity.
“Where are you going with this?” The doctor would prompt.
“And what of your dreams? Have you never had a dream that
mocked life so closely, was such a precise portrait of life, that
you actually lost touch with whether or not you were sleeping or
awake? I mean a dream that felt so real that you initially
believed it to be reality itself?”
“Well, yes-- no. I don’t know; that’s different.”
“Finally an honest answer. You don’t know-- this must be the
most intelligent thing you’ve said thus far. And I appreciate the
verity of that response. But back to our subject. Let’s finish what
we started since we’re so close to the end. As to your indicating
it’s different, how so?”
“I always wake up when I’m dreaming.”
“What’s to say that, perhaps, this isn’t just a figment of your
dreaming imagination and the real world doesn’t await you
somewhere on the other side. How can you confirm that all your
friends and family aren’t sitting around a bedside with you in a
coma, wondering when you’ll awake?” She smiles at her
ingeniousness.
Would the Doctor answer, “Does it matter either way?”
“Lynn, Lynn!!! Hey come back. Tell me what’s going on.”
Oops. She had introverted-- in her quest for personal control, the feeling that she was in control of her environment, rather than being helpless there in the office. For the longest time, in fact even now, she feels the external locus of control -- those outside forces, which dictate her fate-- plaguing her every thought.
She had learned [to be] helpless because she was unable to avoid the repeated aversive events. She had learned to be abstract, after all a formal and final concrete was not to be found. Not even if others pretended that there were absolutes. and spoke with certain permenant tongues. No, life was all about a series of abstractions; why shouldn’t she conform.
“I’m sorry, my mind must have wandered for a moment.” (or 36 ½ minutes.) She grins passively.
“Well, maybe next week you won’t feel quite so uncomfortable with me and we can start to talk more. Maybe actually get something done."
(He giggles, she smiles.)
"I’d like you to take this test next week, it’s not graded or anything but… it’s just for fun so that we can get our bearings as to where you and I stand. This test is a series of inkblot pictures and I’m going to have you tell me what you see in them. It’s called the Rorscharch inkblot test… blah… blah..blah… I’d wished we could have scratched the surface, at least, of why you seem so sad. Maybe we can start breaking down those walls.”
Did he mean her special walls which had taken her a lifetime to build? The ones that formed a maze so complex that only she periodically could find her way through them. No. Her walls were impenetrable.
Only sleep could save her-- no one else could find the way through. Alone. Her pathways ensured that she, herself could not transfer anything from the inside out.
No. One way doors, that’s how it seemed to work. Unbreakable barricades had been built. Silence was deafening and she could not communicate so that others would understand her.
Just sleep could push through those doors-- sleep could make her walls come crashing down so life wouldn’t be so unbearable any more. If he wanted too, she wouldn’t have to be alone and scared anymore…
He continued, “If you need anything or want to tell me anything, feel free.”
Of course she did. She liked the office. She enjoyed the waste of time. She even truly liked the Doctor. He seemed like a nice person. (although not too bright!!) As she walked out the door, she whispered in that small voice, (sitting on a bench), locked in the center of a maze:
“Please don’t let him hit me anymore.”
Her silence seemed to suck away the very essence of her being. The walls so thick, the water so deep-- she surely would not make their date. Lynn had a prior engagement with fate.
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