Conversations With A Disturbed Mind.
The doctor.
I sat in my high-backed leather chair, surveying my office. Decked out in mahoghany furniture, leather chairs and couch, a wall full of books and a pot plant or two, it was quite the typical psychiatrist's office. At least, it looked like the ones you would see in movies. Complete with me, the doctor, sitting behind an enormous, and frankly superflous, desk.
When I was in my element I had helped people to confront, control and overcome some of life's worst problems. Depression, grief, bipolar, etc. I was revered as one of the state's finest. A shining example in my field.
Yet when you really looked at me, listened to me, all I was was hot air. A cheap suit and a wall full of degrees. In my years of dealing with personality disorders, I had lost my personality. I was a hollow shell, operating on autopilot. All I cared about was helping people. Now, that may not seem so bad, but my reasoning behind it was. I needed to boost numbers. The more satisfied, happy, healthy clients, the more money in the bank for me and another certificate of recignition to adorn my wall.
Now, don't get me wrong, I had worked damn hard to get where I was. Top of my class in high school, university and med school. I had put in the hours, the studying. I had sacrificed my social life from a young age.
But somewhere along the way I stopped doing it for other people and started caring solely about myself. When I first decided I wanted to become a psychiatrist, it was because I wanted to make the world a better place. People didn't deserve to be in pain, to be depressed, I thought.
Eventually, though, I didn't care. As long as they kept paying me I was happy doing what I do.
She changed me.
When I was in my element I had helped people to confront, control and overcome some of life's worst problems. Depression, grief, bipolar, etc. I was revered as one of the state's finest. A shining example in my field.
Yet when you really looked at me, listened to me, all I was was hot air. A cheap suit and a wall full of degrees. In my years of dealing with personality disorders, I had lost my personality. I was a hollow shell, operating on autopilot. All I cared about was helping people. Now, that may not seem so bad, but my reasoning behind it was. I needed to boost numbers. The more satisfied, happy, healthy clients, the more money in the bank for me and another certificate of recignition to adorn my wall.
Now, don't get me wrong, I had worked damn hard to get where I was. Top of my class in high school, university and med school. I had put in the hours, the studying. I had sacrificed my social life from a young age.
But somewhere along the way I stopped doing it for other people and started caring solely about myself. When I first decided I wanted to become a psychiatrist, it was because I wanted to make the world a better place. People didn't deserve to be in pain, to be depressed, I thought.
Eventually, though, I didn't care. As long as they kept paying me I was happy doing what I do.
She changed me.