do some good. He frees his right hand from the deathgrip his left has on it and holds it up with the thumb and forefinger almost touching. About this much.
I ask him what he wants.
For my mind to be right again. But trying to cure ones mind by tying ones shoelaces according to some high school code of communication slightly adjusted to fit the current situation thats crazy, wouldnt you say? And crazy people should seek help. If they have any sanity left at allwhich I flatter myself I dothey know that. So here I am.
He slides his hands together again and looks at me with defiance and fright. Also, I think, with some relief. Hes lain awake trying to imagine what it will be like to tell a psychiatrist that he fears for his sanity, and when he did it, I neither ran shrieking from the room nor called for the men in the white coats. Some patients imagine I have a posse of such white-coated men in the very next room, equipped with butterfly nets and straitjackets.
I ask him to give me some instances of his current mental wrongness, and he shrugs.
The usual OCD shit. Youve heard it all a hundred times before. Its the underlying cause I came here to deal with. What happened in August of last year. I thought maybe you could hypnotize me and make me forget it. He looks at me hopefully.
I tell him that, while nothing is impossible, hypnotism works better when its employed as an aid to memory rather than as a block.
Ah, he says. I didnt know that. Shit. He looks up at the ceiling again. The muscles in the side of his face are working, and I think he has something more to say. It could be dangerous, you know. He stops, but this is only a pause; the muscles along his jaw are still flexing and relaxing. Whats wrong with me could be very dangerous. Another pause. To me. Another pause. Possibly to others.
Every therapy session is a series of choices; branching roads with no signposts. Here I could ask him what it isthe dangerous thingbut I elect not to. Instead I ask him what sort of OCD shit hes talking about. Other than the one-up, one-down tying thing, which is a pretty damn good example. (I do not say this.)
You know it all, he says, and gives me a sly look that makes me a bit uncomfortable. I dont show it; he isnt the first patient who has made me uncomfortable. Psychiatrists are spelunkers, really, and any spelunker will tell you that caves are full of bats and bugs. Not nice, but most are essentially harmless.
I ask him to humor me. And to remember that we are still just getting to know each other.
Not going steady just yet, eh?
No, I tell him, not quite yet.
Well, we better be soon, he says, because Im at Condition Orange here, Dr. Bonsaint. Edging into Condition Red.
I ask him if he counts things.
Of course I do, he says. The number of clues in the New York Times crossword puzzles and on Sundays I count twice, because those puzzles are bigger and double-checking seems in order. Necessary, in fact. My own footsteps. Number of telephone rings when I call someone. I eat at the Colonial Diner on most workdays, its three blocks from the office, and on my way there Ill count black shoes. On my way back, Ill count brown ones. I tried red once, but that was ridiculous. Only women wear red shoes, and not many, at that. Not in the daytime. I only counted three pair, so I went back to the Colonial and started again, only the second time I counted brown shoes.
I ask him if he has to count a certain number of shoes in order to achieve satisfaction.
Thirtys good, he says. Fifteen pair. Most days, thats no problem.
And why is it necessary to reach a certain number?
He considers, then looks at me. If I say you know, will you just ask me to explain what it is youre supposed to know? I mean, youve dealt with OCD before and Ive researched itexhaustivelyboth in my own head and on the Internet, so cant
I ask him what he wants.
For my mind to be right again. But trying to cure ones mind by tying ones shoelaces according to some high school code of communication slightly adjusted to fit the current situation thats crazy, wouldnt you say? And crazy people should seek help. If they have any sanity left at allwhich I flatter myself I dothey know that. So here I am.
He slides his hands together again and looks at me with defiance and fright. Also, I think, with some relief. Hes lain awake trying to imagine what it will be like to tell a psychiatrist that he fears for his sanity, and when he did it, I neither ran shrieking from the room nor called for the men in the white coats. Some patients imagine I have a posse of such white-coated men in the very next room, equipped with butterfly nets and straitjackets.
I ask him to give me some instances of his current mental wrongness, and he shrugs.
The usual OCD shit. Youve heard it all a hundred times before. Its the underlying cause I came here to deal with. What happened in August of last year. I thought maybe you could hypnotize me and make me forget it. He looks at me hopefully.
I tell him that, while nothing is impossible, hypnotism works better when its employed as an aid to memory rather than as a block.
Ah, he says. I didnt know that. Shit. He looks up at the ceiling again. The muscles in the side of his face are working, and I think he has something more to say. It could be dangerous, you know. He stops, but this is only a pause; the muscles along his jaw are still flexing and relaxing. Whats wrong with me could be very dangerous. Another pause. To me. Another pause. Possibly to others.
Every therapy session is a series of choices; branching roads with no signposts. Here I could ask him what it isthe dangerous thingbut I elect not to. Instead I ask him what sort of OCD shit hes talking about. Other than the one-up, one-down tying thing, which is a pretty damn good example. (I do not say this.)
You know it all, he says, and gives me a sly look that makes me a bit uncomfortable. I dont show it; he isnt the first patient who has made me uncomfortable. Psychiatrists are spelunkers, really, and any spelunker will tell you that caves are full of bats and bugs. Not nice, but most are essentially harmless.
I ask him to humor me. And to remember that we are still just getting to know each other.
Not going steady just yet, eh?
No, I tell him, not quite yet.
Well, we better be soon, he says, because Im at Condition Orange here, Dr. Bonsaint. Edging into Condition Red.
I ask him if he counts things.
Of course I do, he says. The number of clues in the New York Times crossword puzzles and on Sundays I count twice, because those puzzles are bigger and double-checking seems in order. Necessary, in fact. My own footsteps. Number of telephone rings when I call someone. I eat at the Colonial Diner on most workdays, its three blocks from the office, and on my way there Ill count black shoes. On my way back, Ill count brown ones. I tried red once, but that was ridiculous. Only women wear red shoes, and not many, at that. Not in the daytime. I only counted three pair, so I went back to the Colonial and started again, only the second time I counted brown shoes.
I ask him if he has to count a certain number of shoes in order to achieve satisfaction.
Thirtys good, he says. Fifteen pair. Most days, thats no problem.
And why is it necessary to reach a certain number?
He considers, then looks at me. If I say you know, will you just ask me to explain what it is youre supposed to know? I mean, youve dealt with OCD before and Ive researched itexhaustivelyboth in my own head and on the Internet, so cant
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