Episodically Extraneous

March 21, 2011

Episode one: Internal Monologue at the clinic

Filed under: Uncategorized — Schafe @ 00:52

He asks me if I’m listening, a faint tone of disapproval in his voice. He thinks my attention has wondered, he thinks he held it in the first place. That arrogance of his is a problem, one endemic of his profession, of his species even. Silly human doctors and their inflated sense of self-worth. I smile at the observation as I look at him, he misreads it as a smile towards him. ‘As I was saying, part of this problem might be how you are thinking. You said you find it tiresome to have to interact past people. Human interaction isn’t a hurdle to overcome, you interact with people, it’s a shared experience where you work together to both gain from it.’ His eyes bulge with expectation at the climax of his revelation, it could be hope but the man is a doctor, a doctor of psychiatry no less, he expects me to respond with awe or some other similarly reactive sentiment at his insight. I should be marvelling at how a turn of phrase I used answering his questions led to such an incisive conclusion. I should be vowing to change my ways and thanking him. I could be making process at getting out of this place if I do these things I should do. But I am not here to interact my way beyond this doctor, beyond this facility into freedom. I should be engaging with him so that we both benefit from this interaction, it’d be a falsehood to let him think he helped me, it’d just bloat that ego of his further, and his face is hideously enlarged as it is. Further head swelling would do this doctor no favours. The thought of the unfavourable swelling of the head makes me laugh; some people have noses that can be hypothetically enlarged in the most hilarious ways.  The laughter is confusing, to him more so than me. It wasn’t the expected response which always worries doctors. Fatalities occur when a doctor doesn’t expect the response that happens, not so much with shrinks though but it wouldn’t do to burst that bubble. It’d be impolite, I am meant to be engaging with him, cooperating towards mutual gain. I still don’t know what to say, beyond giving the man what he wants so he can leave here under the delusion that he achieved something the only words my mind can provoke a coarse and foul. Sometimes my brain won’t make readily available the tools needed to achieve my aims, sometimes it wishes to indulge in its sense of humour. I can’t blame it, the doctor is painfully dull. Maybe that is the problem; he isn’t pulling his weight in this interaction. Giving me anything to work with, even his big point about interacting with rather than past people is nothing but a hindrance, forcing me to sit here before the expectant bulge of his smug eyes. How can I respond under the scrutiny and pressure of that gaze anyway? This can’t be fair. I rue giving him my attention now. The bird in the tree beyond the window has gone. I can’t stare enviously at a tree and its freedom. That’ll make the impasse longer and less fun. ‘Julius’ the doctor cracked first. So eager to have his expectations met ‘what do you think about that, Julius? What I just said?’ It can’t just be me that finds this pathetic? It’d be some sort of disservice to my very being to humour such pitiful neediness surely? I close my eyes and do the only thing left for me to do to keep myself entertained for the last ten minutes of my session before the nurse takes me to my room. I whistle show tunes, part of me hopes the doctor will sing along and interact with me for once rather than at me.


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