Writings

Yesterday I Began to Question My Sanity

     "So how are you today?"
     "I’m doing okay, except, yesterday I began to question my sanity."
     "Again?"
     "Yeah."
     "Well, what was it this time?"
     "I think I’m getting dumber."
     "Really? How so?"
     "I’ve been having troubles understanding things; things that I would think I could normally comprehend fine."
     "What was the case?"
     "I was reading a book, and I just had trouble putting the words together. I couldn’t seem to understand the sentences as a whole, and get the ideas behind them, rather than just as individual words."
     "So, because you had trouble reading a book, you think you’re losing your sanity?"
     "Yes, do you think that’s possible?"
     "Well, it would depend on why you’re having trouble understanding the book. Is it possible that the book is just more advanced and complicated than that which you are used to reading?"
     "No. I don’t think so anyway."
     "That could be the case. But, it could also be that you’re having troubles comprehending the text because you’re losing your sense of, and grasp with, reality."
     "That’s not very comforting. Aren’t you, as a psychologist, supposed to be helping me with my problems?"
     "That’s psychiatrist. And, yes, I’m trying to help you with your problems, but first I’ve got to help you understand them before I can help you solve them. And besides, you did ask me if it was possible."
     "But I don’t fell like I’m accomplishing anything; like none of this is helping at all!"
     "Why is that?"
     "Because I just sit here and bitch and you don’t do anything."
     "Why do you think I don’t do anything?"
     "You just sit there asking me vague questions like you just did. ‘How?’ ‘Why?’ ‘What makes you feel this way?’ You sitting over there asking your questions and me just bitching and lying on this couch."
     "It’s a comfortable couch isn’t it?"
     "Well, yes."
     "So why are you complaining?"
     "I don’t know. I just don’t think we do anything."
     "I help you with your problems don’t I?"
     "I guess so. The couch is relaxing, and I think about my problems or take my mind off of them, or try to understand them."
     "Well, there you go."
     "Okay, sorry."
     "That’s okay; it’s what I’m here for, or rather, what you’re here for. So, anyway, you were saying…"
     "Yeah, I’m just having trouble understanding things. I was reading the book, well, it was a book of short stories anyway, and I haven’t been able to understand any of them. Some of them I’ve even read twice, and I just don’t get them. They’re going along fine, and then it just jumps around, and I have trouble following, and when I finish them, I don’t get the point."
     "You probably don’t get the theme because you’re not completely following the story line."
     "Yeah, but what do I do?"
     "Put the book aside, and try reading it again at a later date. You’ve probably just had too much stress and too many distractions to follow the stories."
     "So you think I’ll get better?"
     "I don’t think there’s anything wrong with you that needs to get better. I just think you need some time to relax and take things slower. Watch some television."
     "Then I’m not insane?"
     "No, of course not. Not yet anyway."
     "Don’t joke like that, you know I’m sensitive."
     "Yes, I’m sorry. I’ll see you next week then?"
     "Yeah."
     For a bit longer, he listened to the static from the television. He opened his eyes and glanced around his roach-infested apartment. Using his fickle remote, he turned off the only channel of static that he got. After a second, he realized that it was too quiet, so he turned the television back on. He then, satisfied with the comforting noise and the advise from his television that he was, in fact, still sane, got up to make some coffee.

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