but got out before he saw her.
Mel rushed to have them printed. She was disappointed; the few pages
she’d photographed were just medical history and psychobabble.
Multiple diagnoses:
DSM IV
301.83 Borderline Personality Disorder.
300.14 Dissociative Identity Disorder.
297.30 Shared Psychotic Disorder.
The patient has experienced delusions, hallucinations, bizarre and
disorganized behaviour, social and occupational dysfunction. Adheres to a rich,
elaborate, and exclusively internal fantasy world.
Again, Mel dismissed the clinical diagnoses; those were some formality
of his to allow her to come to therapy. How else would he get her alone? They
certainly weren’t going to start dating. On the next page she skimmed through a
report of some kind that Georgy had written about her:
...believe
completely in what she says will lead you to a maze of infinite roads and
ravines...
Jung
said, "The meeting of two personalities is a contact of two chemical
substances: there is a reaction and both are transformed."
...that
is one stage, and something you must pay careful heed to. Interpret the inner
workings of your mind as well; carefully from the moment you begin to interact
with her.
...you
must perceive the tricks that your own mind is playing; that is, your own
transformation that is might be ensconced in a folie à deux with Mel, a shared
psychotic delusion.
...the
luxury to distance yourself, so pay heed to my notes, they may just save your
sanity.
The
final page went off into more shrink speak that made no sense.
Mel
suddenly had the idea that Georgy must be working on a book and using his
patients for fodder. What a devious plan! Now she wanted the rest of that file.
Mel returned to his office prompt for the eleven o’clock appointment they’d
made, dropped the photos onto his desk, and leaned over in a pseudo accidental
pose showing a ridiculous amount of cleavage. She was Melanie being coy, and
had no control.
“I’d
like to see the full manuscript, doctor.”
Georgy
came around the desk and wrangled her clothes off.
She
looked at the ceiling above the desk as everything jiggled around. Uh-huh, for
sure he’s just doing this to make his book sexier.
7
The next day at noon, Mel received a phone call from an older
woman who seemed confused.
“I found your number on her phone,” whispered the woman. “She
seems lost.”
Mel picked Winnie up from the Kentish Town senior’s center. She’d
been sitting in a chair for over an hour where the old folks played bingo. Her
apartment was a worse mess than Mel’s, and by the look of the coffee table,
she’d been living on the couch for days. Winnie wouldn’t talk on the way home
and flopped on the couch as soon as they arrived.
“Win? You can’t do this!”
No answer.
Melanie grabbed Winnie’s arms and shook
her hard.
“Winnieee!!” Melanie was screeching at
her in her bitchiest little girl voice. “Stop it right now!”
She pulled Winnie off the couch and
dragged her across the floor to the kitchen and sprayed water on her from the
kitchen sink. Winnie wouldn’t respond.
“Winiieee!!!” Melanie got on top of
Winnie on the floor, wrapped her arms around her, shook her around like a doll.
Winnie’s legs and arms bounced on the floor, lifeless.
Sometimes Winnie would go like that.
Just gone. No answer. So did Melanie. There was no diagnosis, because they only
did it to get each other back. Winnie was afraid of the woman with the long
dark hair. Alejandra. Now, Melanie was too. Because Alejandra had shifted
gears, splitting into two.
So now, they’d both have to run from her.
They needed to be together and Winnie knew that. So she’d gone inside. It was like
hide and seek, not a game—it was for real. Mel had to go in, find her version
of Alejandra, and come to terms with it. To her and Winnie, it was just taking
care of business. To the shrinks it would probably be something exotic to write
a paper on.
Mel rushed to have them printed. She was disappointed; the few pages
she’d photographed were just medical history and psychobabble.
Multiple diagnoses:
DSM IV
301.83 Borderline Personality Disorder.
300.14 Dissociative Identity Disorder.
297.30 Shared Psychotic Disorder.
The patient has experienced delusions, hallucinations, bizarre and
disorganized behaviour, social and occupational dysfunction. Adheres to a rich,
elaborate, and exclusively internal fantasy world.
Again, Mel dismissed the clinical diagnoses; those were some formality
of his to allow her to come to therapy. How else would he get her alone? They
certainly weren’t going to start dating. On the next page she skimmed through a
report of some kind that Georgy had written about her:
...believe
completely in what she says will lead you to a maze of infinite roads and
ravines...
Jung
said, "The meeting of two personalities is a contact of two chemical
substances: there is a reaction and both are transformed."
...that
is one stage, and something you must pay careful heed to. Interpret the inner
workings of your mind as well; carefully from the moment you begin to interact
with her.
...you
must perceive the tricks that your own mind is playing; that is, your own
transformation that is might be ensconced in a folie à deux with Mel, a shared
psychotic delusion.
...the
luxury to distance yourself, so pay heed to my notes, they may just save your
sanity.
The
final page went off into more shrink speak that made no sense.
Mel
suddenly had the idea that Georgy must be working on a book and using his
patients for fodder. What a devious plan! Now she wanted the rest of that file.
Mel returned to his office prompt for the eleven o’clock appointment they’d
made, dropped the photos onto his desk, and leaned over in a pseudo accidental
pose showing a ridiculous amount of cleavage. She was Melanie being coy, and
had no control.
“I’d
like to see the full manuscript, doctor.”
Georgy
came around the desk and wrangled her clothes off.
She
looked at the ceiling above the desk as everything jiggled around. Uh-huh, for
sure he’s just doing this to make his book sexier.
7
The next day at noon, Mel received a phone call from an older
woman who seemed confused.
“I found your number on her phone,” whispered the woman. “She
seems lost.”
Mel picked Winnie up from the Kentish Town senior’s center. She’d
been sitting in a chair for over an hour where the old folks played bingo. Her
apartment was a worse mess than Mel’s, and by the look of the coffee table,
she’d been living on the couch for days. Winnie wouldn’t talk on the way home
and flopped on the couch as soon as they arrived.
“Win? You can’t do this!”
No answer.
Melanie grabbed Winnie’s arms and shook
her hard.
“Winnieee!!” Melanie was screeching at
her in her bitchiest little girl voice. “Stop it right now!”
She pulled Winnie off the couch and
dragged her across the floor to the kitchen and sprayed water on her from the
kitchen sink. Winnie wouldn’t respond.
“Winiieee!!!” Melanie got on top of
Winnie on the floor, wrapped her arms around her, shook her around like a doll.
Winnie’s legs and arms bounced on the floor, lifeless.
Sometimes Winnie would go like that.
Just gone. No answer. So did Melanie. There was no diagnosis, because they only
did it to get each other back. Winnie was afraid of the woman with the long
dark hair. Alejandra. Now, Melanie was too. Because Alejandra had shifted
gears, splitting into two.
So now, they’d both have to run from her.
They needed to be together and Winnie knew that. So she’d gone inside. It was like
hide and seek, not a game—it was for real. Mel had to go in, find her version
of Alejandra, and come to terms with it. To her and Winnie, it was just taking
care of business. To the shrinks it would probably be something exotic to write
a paper on.
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