The Diagnosis & The Cure

The night’s dreaming started with coffee. Rich and dense with a hint of foam from the pouring of it. Visiting a friend in the Dreaming, secure knowing at least here I don’t have to worry about labyrinthine plots and chess board conversations. Silly me, I forgot who I was visiting. I chuckled a bit, as the talking turned to story, as the story turned to rhythm, as the rhythm wrapped around me and pulled me into an Elsewhere that I don’t remember. For now.

I “woke up” from the Elsewhere in a hospital examination room. The sink kept a slow drip no matter how often the young doctor tried to manipulate the handle. Looking at the condition of the sink, and the water stained ceiling tiles above me, I knew the building had a problem with hard water, and hard accountants. He finally learned how to tune out the regular drip and focus his attention on me.

He was blathering on about how “abnormal” my current mental state is. Instead of being offended or shocked, I was quite amused, and let the sentiment show with a hint of a smile. He saw and was more bothered by my reaction to his “bad news”, than by the dripping. “No, I’m sorry, I don’t think you understand. Your current mental state, is not something to be proud of. It is a hindrance, that is keeping you from integrating completely into modern society.” At that, I laughed, harshly and loudly, completely dismissing his “prognosis”.

I started to stand from the chair, but he blocked me and pushed me back down. “You are unable to see how detrimental your state is. Here, I will show you in language you are more able to understand.” Okay, now he’s pissing me off. Insinuating I am unable to comprehend basic English? Only when I’m near the Pit. I realize I’m dreaming, and wonder if I can take this “doctor” to the Pit myself.

A magazine is plopped into my lap. Some medical journal, in which he has dog-eared a study on schizophrenia. I notice he has hidden the following issue, where the study was refuted and proven to be error-ridden. He shows me actuary charts, of the average lifespan of unmedicated schizophrenics and medicated schizophrenics. He tries to hide the disclaimer that informs the deaths due to medication related causes had been omitted from the chart. He didn’t hide it well. Anecdote after anecdote, publication after publication, he tries to convince me that my current way of life, my current way of thinking, is a threat to society. When I start verbally refuting his claims, using the very language he claimed I was unable to comprehend, he pulls out the DSM and reads from it like a preacher reading from a bible.

I allowed him to blather on, noting that where I am calm, amused, and relaxed, the doctor is agitated, sweating, and almost delirious in his pursuit of my compliance.

“You know, I can stop these emotional surges you suffer from. I can make you normal, and part of everyday society again. But you have to stop trying to fix yourself. You can’t. You need help. And I can help you.” His face glistens from obsession. Why is he so damned determined to get me on that merry-go-round again? I tried the Approved Methods. They almost destroyed me. Western medicine can not help everyone, and I’m an example of the exception. I have done more for myself in the past six years, than Western methods have done for the 20 years prior.

And then I see, his eyes are inflamed with the fire that comes from religious fervor.

Ah. Now I understand.

This isn’t about me. This is about him. His worldview is carefully constructed to support his core beliefs. (As is the same with all of us, I suppose.) But it is such a rigid worldview, that any evidence that contradicts must be forced to conform. His worldview says people that see visions and hear voices are dangerous to society and must be restrained, physically or medically, for the Greater Good. His worldview says spiritworkers are delusional fucks in need of “care”. His worldview almost killed me, until I rejected it and embraced my madness. I wonder if there is any nice way to let him down.

Nope.

Might as well just go ahead and bring the whole house down.

My favorite means of banishment?

Laughter.

I laughed heartily at him, and the force of my laughter pushed him back into his stack of ‘evidence’. The stack collapsed under him, throwing papers and sticky notes upward with a loud “phlump”. I felt bad for knocking him over so fiercely, so I started to extend a hand to help him get up. But his evidence had turned into a foamy glue that fixed him fast to the floor. Stuck on his back, he struggled and struggled but couldn’t pull free. Startled, I sat back down in my chair. I felt the dream shift a little around me. I look up and find the small examination room is transforming. The ceiling rose higher and the walls melted away into fading motes of light.

“We are bound by what we believe in.” I look up to see a tall woman standing over me. Looking around the greatly enlarged room, I find there are other doctors and professionals lying on the floor, held fast by their unwavering belief. Some fiercely clutching the groupthink journals they both subscribe and contribute to. Some just laying in quiet surrender, having resolved themselves to never thinking in other ways.

“Oh, you’re not stuck in your thinking. How interesting.” I turned to the speaker. To the other side of me was a different woman, also bound to the floor. Or so I thought. She was able to sit up, but her feet were still caught. She watched me with bright eyes. “How was it you were able to change your thinking? What freed you?” Her and I held discourse on the ability of dreams to be more than the emanations of the subconscious, on dreamworlds being safe places to explore alternate views and confront deeply held fears. In dreaming, I explained, a person can be confronted with all the fears and terrors of the waking, but be able to see the truth of them in a way the waking prevents. “So, dreams then, can be used as a way to free a patient from their fears, instead of just confirming them? Interesting.” As she pondered my words, the last bindings on her feet fell away. She stood up, thanked me, and declared she was going to pursue how to use such insight to help her patients. She left, nodding at the standing woman as she passed her.

The standing woman asked me if I knew where I was. I said I knew I was dreaming, but I didn’t know if this was a dream, or if this was a Dream. “This place is analogous to a hospital in your Waking world. People come here when they find themselves transforming, but they don’t know what to do. Like you.” She smiled as her speech ended.

I looked at my hands and saw my form shift slightly. The monstrous claws fit well on my hand, but I only laughed at them. “But I know I’m human. I accept that now. I’m psychologically damaged, but in this life, I’m human.” I look up at her and laugh more. “I’m human with a great helping of body dismorphia!”

She smiled a patient smile. I know it’s supposed to be disarming, but it pisses me off because it’s also a condescending smile. There is usually the mindset of “You poor stupid fuck, you don’t know and will never learn.” behind that kind of smile. Then I realized, my reaction was precisely why she smiled that way. The realization sobered my mirth.

“But then again…”, I continued. “Not all transformations are physical in nature.” She smiled a genuine smile this time. She said nothing, only nodded. She extended a hand and helped me to my feet. As we walked through the large room, I encountered many different people. Many of them were in the process of transformation themselves, but had encountered some type of restriction that they were not able to see or manipulate. The restrictions were plainly visible to me, however. Visible, tangible, and manipulable. I could help them.

I’m afraid to.

For one thing, none of them asked me to help. Those that see me, have dismissed me as another patient. Those that don’t see me, I’m prevent myself from interfering because Ethics.

I walked with her, feeling more impotent than ever. I turned away from the others, and fixed my gaze on an empty place ahead. She sighed. “You’re a stubborn one, Weaver. You had to be. The circumstances of your upbringing forced you into it. Such singular devotion is how you managed to survive this far, being able to focus on one thing and blotting out all else that would distract you. But such singular devotion makes you vulnerable in the worlds you find yourself in now. It makes you easy to manipulate. And there are those ever eager to take hold of your potential. By making you focus on them, you are blind to the manipulations being made through you.”

I didn’t realize until now, we had been walking arm in arm, with her leading me. Suddenly self-conscious, I pull my arm away. “I know this. I know this quite well. Everyone is quick to tell me that I’m broken, but no one tells me how to fix it. There is just the quiet insinuation that I’ll never get ‘better’, that I’ll always be one rage away from forced institution again. Usually accompanied with the pity of ‘Thank the gods, I’m not as fucked as her.’ It’s why I’m wary of those that do offer to help. Up until recently, everyone that has offered to help me, has done so with personal goals in mind. Goals that usually wind up fucking me over one way or another.”

She continued strolling down the long room. I keep with her, but make sure some space is between us. She notices, but says nothing. “Tell me, Weaver. When you chatted with the woman bound by her feet, did you feel that way?” I had to admit, I didn’t. “You still see yourself with poisoned eyes. Because that is how you were taught to view yourself. You have to start seeing yourself the way others do, not as prey, but as an equal.”

“And just how do I that? I’ll have to ignore what I know of myself to do that. While I expose much of me, there is much more I keep hidden from the public eye. I know I am prey. And I know I am predator.” I kept the following thought to myself. And that scares me.

She stopped, turned to face me, and lifted my hands before me. “What is your name? What are you called here?”

“Weaver.” Oh, subject change. Right?

“Why?”

“Because I talk a lot of shit and ‘weave’ stories for whoever asks.” I laughed. Not just because of how I was named, but because I was suddenly very uncomfortable. Why was she holding my hands?

She placed my hands together, palm to palm, still holding them up between us. “I’ve noticed, Weaver, those moments you help yourself without guilt, are those moments when you’re helping others. Help more people, Weaver, and heal yourself.”

She released my hands, turned, and walked away into the darkening corridor. I stood there, my hands still upraised and together, as the creeping shadows flooded over me and took me from the dream.

Make of that, what you may.