The Psychiatrist

My alarm clock rang loudly. I tried to reach my arm to the right side of my bed to stop it. But then I realized I was sitting at my desk. I had slept there the whole night and my back ached. If only my notes from yesterday hadn't kept me up all night, as I debated over what to with my patients. The most difficult one was Tyler J. Watson, a 28-year-old man who claimed he had an invisible wife.

I finally turned off my alarm clock, got ready for work, and bid my husband, Clyde, farewell. "Bye, Silvia! Good luck curing your patients!" he called to me. He never understood how I cured a crazy person. I told him it was all about entering their minds and seeing the world the way they see it. You had to be the crazy person to truly understand them. I said goodbye to my 14-year-old daughter, Maureen, who waved back at me without saying a word. I frowned, puzzled at how quiet she had been this morning, but I ignored the thought.

The insane people I met with, were the ones I needed to worry about. As I waited in my office to interview my next patient, my assistant, Daniel Carlson, read to me today's schedule.

"Twenty patients today, Dr. Florence," he said, smiling. I could tell he wasn't actually happy though. He had his fake smile on.

"Only twenty!" I said sarcastically. I had about twenty every day.

"First, we have Martha Black. You won't be surprised by her story. She's a college student now, studying to become an engineer," Daniel explained. "Every time she stares at a wall too long, she sees the face of her father, who died when she was fifteen."

"Oh so the usual," I said, bored. A lot of my patients had visions, or saw dead people. These visions rarely made the patient special. Most of the time they were just imagining things, or lying.

Martha Black hurried in, shaking. Her blue eyes were red from crying. Daniel took notes as she told her story.

"Every time I see his face, he's...glaring at me angrily! But I didn't do anything wrong!" her voice got higher and more tense, and she burst into tears.

I tried not to feel bad for her, knowing that I had to discipline all my patients, but her story was touching. She was very close to her father, and felt it was her fault he died.

"I got sick. My mother told me to stay away from my family. But my father always visited me in the hospital. And he caught it and died, and now he's mad at me!" She started weeping again.

I took off my glasses to rub my face in irritation. Why did that make Martha think it was her fault? Why were people crazy like this? Why did they have these visions?

"So it was your father's fault he died. He shouldn't have visited you and got himself sick," I explained, hoping that would make her feel better.

"But then why does his face look angry every time I see him?" she asked, raising her voice again.

"Martha!" I stood up and started pacing. "Do you honestly think you're real father would be mad at you? You were only fifteen!"

Martha pondered about this question. "Are you saying it isn't my real father I'm seeing on the walls?" she asked, her voice shaking.

"Of course that's what I'm saying!" I said calmly, sitting down again. "You yourself, think it was your fault, and your mind has conjured up visions of your beliefs to make them stronger and to make you scared. You have to ignore those visions. Listen. Next time you see your father's face, ignore it. Or smile at it. Laugh at it. If you convince yourself it's just your imagination it will go away forever."

Daniel quickly scribbled down notes and said, "If you have no more questions, Ms. Black, you are dismissed."

Martha stared ahead of her, deep in thought. Suddenly, her blue eyes widened. She raised her arm and pointed at the wall. I knew what was going on, of course.