light, like an interrogator’s lamp directed in the Acaanan’s face.
“Because…I’m different.”
“How so?” the doctor replied, leaning back in his chair and interlacing his fingers.
“I’m an Acaanan…and they are Human.”
“And?”
“Humans hate Acaanans!” Lakif spat out. “Everyone knows that!”
“I see you haven’t faced your own latent homosexuality.”
“What?” Lakif shrieked. “I said…”
“You claimed that they were spying on you,” the doctor replied in a matter-of-fact tone. “Paranoia is just a manifestation of repressed homosexuality.”
“Pardon?” Lakif’s voice shrilled as much as the juvenile waiter’s.
“It’s all expressed through unconscious defense mechanisms, of course. You see, ‘I love them,’ seen as an unacceptable impulse, is transformed or reversed to its opposite. Namely, ‘I hate them.’ In technical jargon, this is called
reaction formation
. Then, ‘I hate them’ is changed into ‘they hate me,’ a simple projection of your feelings on to another. Ergo, paranoia is simply the external manifestation of an inner struggle with your own despised homosexuality.”
Lakif had absolutely no idea what gibberish the scholar was spewing.
“So forget the tea and drink of wine. Let it imbue your spirit with the taste of experimentation. The superego is soluble in alcohol, the so-called
superego lacuna
.”
“I’m not homosexual,” Lakif corrected.
“Denial is the very foundation of…” The doctor twirled his pipe.
“I said I’m not homosexual!” Lakif truncated the scholar before he could conjure up any other preposterous theories. She froze. Her vehement denial had not gone unnoticed by several nearby scholars.
“Then you’re preaching to the wrong choir, lad,” the fellow concluded and blew into his empty pipe. He then threw her a mischievous wink. Lakif realized that he must have noted her awkwardness before the two scholars and had twitted her.
“You’ve had some good amusement at my expense. By the way, I’m a woman.”
“Yes, I can see that.”
“Who are you?” Lakif asked.
“Galen Johem, doctor,” he began packing his pipe anew.
“You are a medical doctor?” Lakif was eager to pick the scholar’s brain on a host of ailments that plagued her. She couldn’t recall the last time she had spoken with a doctor. It was certainly before adolescence. Although the details were vague, she recalled it was a harrowing experience.
“My specialty is abnormal psychiatry,” Galen clarified.
“I see.” Lakif nodded, although she hadn’t a notion what the doctor was referring to. “So why do you want to speak with me?”
“To crack open an Acaanan’s mind is to breach the forbidden fortress of mental afflictions. It is nothing less than drinking from the Holy Grail of abnormal psychiatry. No psychiatrist worth his degree would squander the opportunity.”
“I see. I suppose I’m honored.” The doctor had made it sound like the mental disturbances accredited Acaanans were positive attributes. “What did you wish to discuss?”
“Lie back and let’s start from the beginning.” The analyst set down the pipe and armed himself with the clipboard and quill. “Tell me of your parents; anything that leaps to mind.”
“I don’t remember much of them.” Lakif dismissed her interrogator.
“Surely there must be…”
“Enough!” Lakif snapped, silencing the prying analyst. The very first question had struck a nerve. “I’m not interested in being a guinea pig for your mental scalpel.”
“That’s a pity. You are free to leave at any time,” Galen informed her. Lakif stood and was about to leave when she was struck by an idea.
“Doctor. Perhaps we can speak on another issue.”
“Of course.”
Lakif resumed her seat. Torkoth’s plight had weighed heavily on her mind all morning, and the doctor seemed the expert to shed some light on Torkoth’s condition. “Is it possible that a wound to the rear of
“Because…I’m different.”
“How so?” the doctor replied, leaning back in his chair and interlacing his fingers.
“I’m an Acaanan…and they are Human.”
“And?”
“Humans hate Acaanans!” Lakif spat out. “Everyone knows that!”
“I see you haven’t faced your own latent homosexuality.”
“What?” Lakif shrieked. “I said…”
“You claimed that they were spying on you,” the doctor replied in a matter-of-fact tone. “Paranoia is just a manifestation of repressed homosexuality.”
“Pardon?” Lakif’s voice shrilled as much as the juvenile waiter’s.
“It’s all expressed through unconscious defense mechanisms, of course. You see, ‘I love them,’ seen as an unacceptable impulse, is transformed or reversed to its opposite. Namely, ‘I hate them.’ In technical jargon, this is called
reaction formation
. Then, ‘I hate them’ is changed into ‘they hate me,’ a simple projection of your feelings on to another. Ergo, paranoia is simply the external manifestation of an inner struggle with your own despised homosexuality.”
Lakif had absolutely no idea what gibberish the scholar was spewing.
“So forget the tea and drink of wine. Let it imbue your spirit with the taste of experimentation. The superego is soluble in alcohol, the so-called
superego lacuna
.”
“I’m not homosexual,” Lakif corrected.
“Denial is the very foundation of…” The doctor twirled his pipe.
“I said I’m not homosexual!” Lakif truncated the scholar before he could conjure up any other preposterous theories. She froze. Her vehement denial had not gone unnoticed by several nearby scholars.
“Then you’re preaching to the wrong choir, lad,” the fellow concluded and blew into his empty pipe. He then threw her a mischievous wink. Lakif realized that he must have noted her awkwardness before the two scholars and had twitted her.
“You’ve had some good amusement at my expense. By the way, I’m a woman.”
“Yes, I can see that.”
“Who are you?” Lakif asked.
“Galen Johem, doctor,” he began packing his pipe anew.
“You are a medical doctor?” Lakif was eager to pick the scholar’s brain on a host of ailments that plagued her. She couldn’t recall the last time she had spoken with a doctor. It was certainly before adolescence. Although the details were vague, she recalled it was a harrowing experience.
“My specialty is abnormal psychiatry,” Galen clarified.
“I see.” Lakif nodded, although she hadn’t a notion what the doctor was referring to. “So why do you want to speak with me?”
“To crack open an Acaanan’s mind is to breach the forbidden fortress of mental afflictions. It is nothing less than drinking from the Holy Grail of abnormal psychiatry. No psychiatrist worth his degree would squander the opportunity.”
“I see. I suppose I’m honored.” The doctor had made it sound like the mental disturbances accredited Acaanans were positive attributes. “What did you wish to discuss?”
“Lie back and let’s start from the beginning.” The analyst set down the pipe and armed himself with the clipboard and quill. “Tell me of your parents; anything that leaps to mind.”
“I don’t remember much of them.” Lakif dismissed her interrogator.
“Surely there must be…”
“Enough!” Lakif snapped, silencing the prying analyst. The very first question had struck a nerve. “I’m not interested in being a guinea pig for your mental scalpel.”
“That’s a pity. You are free to leave at any time,” Galen informed her. Lakif stood and was about to leave when she was struck by an idea.
“Doctor. Perhaps we can speak on another issue.”
“Of course.”
Lakif resumed her seat. Torkoth’s plight had weighed heavily on her mind all morning, and the doctor seemed the expert to shed some light on Torkoth’s condition. “Is it possible that a wound to the rear of
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