A Short Story: Psychologist’s Notepad

“Describe yourself as if you are reading from a psychologist’s notepad. Analyse your behaviour, make possible diagnoses, etc.”

Whilst I should be thinking about why I feel the way I feel and do the things that I do, I can’t help but consider what they think. Then again, I can’t help but consider what everyone thinks of my existence. Perhaps that’s my problem.

Although, that spiral-bound notepad contains a caricature of me, made up of words and phrases I probably wouldn’t know the meaning of without using google. Another problem of mine, a lack of intelligence. Maybe that explains my struggle to decipher the simplest of tasks.

Having a therapist isn’t a complete burden. It’s good to feel like I am growing as a functioning human being sometimes but continuously, the notes grow too, triggering the expansion of paranoid thoughts circulating my brain. Maybe they’re uninterested and really, they’re aggressively jotting down their shopping list or the latest recipe they want to try, the ingredients possibly being my diagnosis alongside my prescriptions.

Would the sheets of paper say that Archie is worse today? Do his symptoms continue to be described, at a frequent and more intense rate? Are his manifestations to his personality episodically present? Do his wishes to be dead appear more urgent than normal?

The clock, the couch and the bottomless box of Kleenex. If I focus on every other item in this room then I hope I can be brought back to earth. I wonder if they’re taking note of all this. The excessive paranoid thoughts, persistent delusions, irrationality, and the caution that went into the failed suicide attempts.

Half of my brain imagines they call me careful but erratic. A man who wants to plan and pay attention to detail but struggles due to his volatile mood-swings and instability of mind. The other half thinks they’ve possibly labelled me as crazy. Not the type of crazy that can be treated with endless therapy sessions and note-taking, but the type who is put into therapy sessions to keep them away from killing themselves. The type of crazy who is so mad that even the doctors think they can easily be disillusioned further, into thinking they’re getting better.

This session is ending. I’ve remained mute and I bet my last marbles that they’ve noted that. Perhaps depressive psychosis with severe generalised anxiety? Maybe just a lunatic? Am I a danger to society? Have they written that down? Are my thoughts putting the public at risk? I should wait till next week.

How does that notepad have more answers than I do?

 

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