Read Online Ultraviolet by R. J. Anderson - Free Book Online

into an explanation of how modern psychoanalysis was just reinforcing people’s negative emotions and what the world needed was a radical new form of therapy that would make everybody feel good. I lost the thread of his logic at that point, but his grand scheme for reforming the mental health care system seemed to involve regular sex for all patients, unlimited access to energy drinks, and a giant outdoor rock concert featuring all his favorite bands. If Sharon hadn’t cut him off after a couple of minutes, he would probably have talked the entire half hour.
    “Thank you, Kirk, that’s very interesting,” she said. “But I think it’s time for us to give some of the others a chance. Sanjay, why don’t you tell us what makes you angry?”
    “I’m angry about being here,” said Sanjay softly.
    Sharon leaned forward. “Yes? Why is that?”
    “Because I tried to warn my parents about the aliens, but they wouldn’t listen. So the aliens injected them with mind control serum and put their mark on them. And then they sent me here, because—”
    “You know why I’m angry?” interrupted Micheline in her rasping voice. “I’m angry because I have to sit here listening to this crap, and all I want is a frickin’ cigarette.”
    “Let’s use respectful language, Micheline,” said Sharon placidly. And then, to my discomfort, she turned to me. “We’re so glad to have you join us, Alison. Would you like to tell us about something that makes you angry?”
    The last time I remembered being angry, Tori Beaugrand had died. “I’d rather not,” I said.
    “It doesn’t have to be a big thing,” she encouraged. “It’s okay to start small.”
    “I know, but I don’t really . . . do anger. It never makes anything better. So I try not to get into it.” Or any other intense emotion, for that matter. Like grief, because there was no use wallowing in misery; you just had to accept that bad things happened and keep going. And love, because caring about anything too deeply was just asking to have it taken away.
    Sharon crooked a finger in front of her lips. I could see she wanted to correct me, and yet it went against her therapeutic creed to tell a patient that anything he or she said was actually
wrong
. “Well,” she said at last, “we all have different personalities, and different ways of dealing with conflict. But I think it’s possible for all of us to find ways to express our anger without it becoming unhealthy.”
    Micheline spat out a bitter laugh, but Sharon ignored it. She turned to the patient on my left—a girl with drooping eyelids who looked about as full of buried rage as Eeyore—and began coaxing her to participate. And so the session dragged on, until I almost wished I could disintegrate myself and everyone else in the circle just to put us all out of our misery.
    But Anger Management was just the beginning. Next came an educational session called “Understanding Your Medication,” in which a nurse came in and talked about the various antidepressants, antipsychotics, and mood stabilizers we were on, and how important it was for us to keep taking them consistently. She was running down a list of common side effects—dry mouth, drowsiness, blurred vision, and so on—when Kirk suddenly leaped to his feet and began doing a spasmodic song-and-dance routine to the tune of “The Battle Hymn of the Republic”:

    “I’ve got tardive dyskinesia,
    I’ve got tardive dyskinesia,
    I’ve got tardive dyskinesia,
    And now I can’t sit still!”

    “Kirk,” snapped the nurse, “sit down, or you’re going to have to leave.” But the Eeyore-faced girl put up a tentative hand. “What’s tardive . . . whatever?”
    “Dyskinesia,” said Kirk helpfully.
    The nurse looked exasperated, but she could hardly refuse to answer. “It’s one of the
possible
side effects that
occasionally
happens when a patient has been on one of the
older
forms of antipsychotic drugs for a
considerable
period of time.”