This story originally appeared in the Philippine Daily Inquirer on May 2, 2006.
Dear Doc,
You’ve probably had enough of me by now. I’m assuming I’m the last person you want to hear from. You might not admit it for fear of offending me, but I must say that what I am thinking is less speculative than a mere guess. All my life I’ve been working to read other people’s thoughts, hoping that if I concentrated hard enough I’d have the magical ability to read minds.
I saw you in the movie theater three Sundays ago as you were about to watch “The Chronicles of Narnia.” I was wearing a Hilfiger shirt with blue stripes, a pair of Chuck Taylors and a New York Yankee cap. Your shirt resembled mine, except that the blue stripes were wider and you obviously weren’t in hip-hop attire. In case you noticed me, you were probably wondering what the heck I was there for, and whether you could spare yourself some awkward moments if I (or you) were to acknowledge that we were in the same place.
You didn’t have to worry; I spared us both from an interaction that would have gone God knows where. No words were necessary. I suppose it’s strange enough to see one of your patients outside your office, when you’re trying to spend “quality time” with your family. Heck, I wouldn’t want to see my boss in a reunion with aunts and uncles. But it must be even more uncomfortable when the patient is a self-confessed nut case like me.
We met last March during my very first psychotherapy session, when I didn’t even know what that meant. (Seems so long ago, doesn’t it?) What happened that day, I don’t expect you to remember, for first impressions are often blurred by eventual familiarity.
But I bet you can recall how the last session went. It happened five months later on a humid Thursday afternoon. I had taken a long but enjoyable 15-minute walk to your office. There’s nothing like hopping along Makati Avenue in an Old Navy shirt and dirty sneakers while robots in business suits go on with their swift, intelligent march. I had never looked worse, literally. My hands were bleeding from self-inflicted cuts, my face looked pale, my eyes droopy from sleeplessness, and my hair—oh God, the long unruly hair on my scalp that sprouted in a thousand different directions—let’s just say I was a mess.
Coming off perhaps the worst day of my life, I gave you a telephone call. “Doc, it’s me,” I said. “If you’re free, I’d like to set an appointment tomorrow.”
“Didn’t I tell you to call me when you think about hurting yourself?” you demanded to know.
I knew that you knew, and that my mother had told you. But I asked because I wanted to hear your concern, to hear that you cared. What are doctors for if beyond the tests, analyses and prescriptions, they don’t affirm a serious interest in their patients’ well-being? The phone call was not so much about having you mark your calendar as making you acknowledge that something wrong had happened, and that you gave a damn. It always feels good to hear somebody telling you to take care.
When I went for that last session, I didn’t get much of a reaction from you, and for some reason it disappointed me. You were your usual composed and understanding self, nonchalantly pushing buttons on your new Communicator as if 20-year-olds with dried blood on their fingers were a normal sight. I suspect you studied all this. Were you aware that the depressed were not the kind to give a rat’s ass about their physical appearance? Did you know other people with suicidal tendencies and their enervated laziness? Was your strategy not to comment so quickly on their injuries—both physical and mental—so you didn’t prompt them to press on with their mad entreaties?
Initially, I thought you weren’t that great a doctor. You weren’t the old sage with white hair I imagined you would look like or the Malcolm Crowe character Bruce Willis played. You were just a middle-aged man who hung his diplomas and certificates on the wall, with a fairly decent jazz collection in his shelf, and who had that low dry cough from smoking. You were 20 minutes late for our first session, too, a practice I can’t ascribe to gurus.
But you did your job perfectly. And this I came to believe more and more. And as far as the nature of your profession is concerned, it is actually less scandalous and traumatic than what society would have people believe. My experience shattered my preconceived notions about mental illness and the humiliation of undergoing treatment.
There are still times when I felt I am simply your charity case, a lost boy who happened to graduate from your alma mater. It didn’t help that I kept saying I was broke. But you carried on, partly because you knew what our school motto meant but mostly because I made myself out to be such a sorry figure that I left you with no choice at all.
You never really needed anything from me, and though I probably drove you to the limits of your sympathy, believe me when I say I’m a lot less comfortable with the position. I have a huge ego, and nothing deflates it more than tying myself to anyone because I couldn’t help myself. I’m no victim. Or am I?
Three Sundays ago, therefore, I avoided talking to you. I’ve led myself to believe that we both have had enough of your altruism. Dodging your glances seemed to be better than engaging in a courteous chat. Pleasantries don’t always do us good anyway, for they sometimes mask the truth. If you asked how I was doing, I’d have said , “Great.” If you went on to say, “Look at you now, you have a job and everything. Let me introduce you to my kids,” I would have answered, “It’s such a pleasure to meet you. Enjoy the movie.” And you would have march into the theater, clutching your boy’s hand, to see C.S. Lewis’ beloved masterpiece.
It’s a lie. You’ll see in my eyes that I’m not “better” like you have constantly worked to help me become. Although it was your hope that the day would come when I finally acquired some measure of “okayness,” three Sundays ago wasn’t that day.
It’s a lie. When I talk to you, you’ll notice the strain in my defeated voice, as well as the restlessness that has rendered me older but not mellower. I guess I just can’t quit the sticky, sweet pleasure of being a tragedy.
It has been less than 10 months since my dazed, anxious entry into your life. In a frozen memory close to my heart, I hold on dearly to something that is true. “Regards,” you always said, as if at all times and especially during my worst moments of lunacy, I would need your reminder that I take care. For all the word’s customary uses, your version always seems to have a distinctive quality to it. It’s a rare case of charity becoming agreeable to me despite my pride. I am like a hungry boy who gives in to the temptation to accept sweets offered him. For this at least, and in all its austerity, I will remain
Forever thankful,
Dimitri
