Writing – Page 66 – Inside The Mind of a Psychiatrist

A patient, a bright college-graduate who was just beginning psychotherapy for depression and anxiety, dreamt that he was traveling deep in the ocean in a submarine. There was a light on the front of the submarine, but it was still too dark to see what was ahead.

The patient said, “The dream makes no sense. I was never in a submarine. Where could it be going?”

“Any ideas? The psychiatrist asked.

“None.”

“Any thoughts about submarines or trips?”

“Not really. Except that in the dream I was pretty nervous.”

“About what?”

“Just nervous…”

After a few more non-productive attempts at getting his new patient to explore the meaning of the dream, the psychiatrist commented, “It seems like you’re fearful of the upcoming journey.”

“What journey? I’m not planning on going anywhere.”

“I’m referring to the journey into your own mind.”

The young man just stared at the psychiatrist and shook his head in awe. “It’s so obvious, now that you said it. Why couldn’t I see it?”

“That’s what our journey’s all about. For you to see what’s hidden within you, and for you to use that information to feel better.”

Dreams range from the amazing to the mundane. They can help uncover years of repressed rage and love; or just be a simple memory of what happened the previous day. The mysteries hidden within the mind are accessible through the process of psychotherapy and self-examination.

For a writer, dreams can be the direction that will lead a novelist to spend years writing a novel that no one but himself might read. Yes, the wish for wealth and greatness may be there, but to spend so much time on an endeavor so fraught with failure has to be driven by the deepest of passions. A passion so deep that even a submarine might not reach it. And maybe it shouldn’t be reached. Just the magic of creativity is often enough.

The magic of the dream is that it touches our core, tantalizes our psyche, but keeps us safe. It is our mind’s way of dealing out information in a way that we can handle, gently and carefully. On the other hand, nightmares never feel gentle or safe. But sometimes we might need a two-by-four to wake us up and do what we need to do to improve our lives.

Please leave whatever comments cross your mind.

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The camp was idyllic, on a lake, cabins scattered among tall Pine trees, with dirt trails connecting everything to ball fields, the dining room and recreation center. There were 12 waiters, 16-17 year old boys, who were housed in the cabin closest to the dining room.

Rocko, the leader, was 6 feet tall with a physique that suited a Neanderthal. He was assigning jobs to the 11 boys who were all in various stages of making their beds and unpacking their trunks. The first day of camp was filled with learning dining room protocol and that evening the boys were organizing their personal belongings.

“Hey douchbag, you’re not listening to me,” Rocko yelled to the slim boy at the far end of the cabin.

“I’m making my bed,” the boy said.

Seconds later Rocko was standing chest to chest with the slim boy. “I said I was talking to you!”

The boy just stood still, a hard expression forming around his mouth and eyes.

“If you don’t like it, do something about it,” Rocko spat out, his 200 pounds of muscle tensed for an onslaught. He chest butted the boy and put his face just inches from his face. “Chicken shit! Do something or do exactly what I say.”

The boy just stood and stared, not moving a muscle, not blinking.

Rocko pushed the boy and walked away. “Chicken shit.”

It was 11 years before they spoke again. The slim boy, now a doctor and a resident in psychiatry, was moonlighting doing insurance exams for a friend, an insurance agent who had been a fellow waiter that same summer. The patient he was paid to examine was no other than Rocko, who was 30 pounds lighter, had pale skin and a dead look in his eyes.

The doctor asked all the appropriate questions and did a careful physical exam. Rocko had Hodgkins Lymphoma, a serious form of lymphatic cancer. The 2 men never referred to the decades-old altercation and never would. Rocko died a few years later.

The doctor experienced no joy in observing Rocko’s terminal illness or any sense that justice had been served. There was only the feeling he had failed himself by not handling the old situation with more courage.

Now, decades after Rocko’s death, there is finally closure for the slim boy who became a psychiatrist. Joe Belmont, the main character in his novel Chasing Backwards, doesn’t let people push him around, even if those people are the police or professional criminals.

It feels good having a character do what he needs to do. It always feels good to not be afraid.

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