I knew I had a problem because I took myself to see a psychiatrist, myself and my doubts, and the 22 words I had written down on a piece of paper; I still couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps he felt something too, and no matter how convinced I was of the contrary, I could never let this illusion fade away, not entirely.
Like I said, I needed some space, and a second opinion.
With feelings intertwined I sat waiting for the bus. I wasn’t mentally ill, I was overwhelmed. That’s what the psychiatrist said. But I knew that. I had met an attractive doctor, and hoped he could give me all the answers, respond to all of my needs, ease my worries and tone down my fear of dying—save me, ravish me. As for the rest and the 22 words, well she thought that if he liked me he would have let me know by now, perhaps, maybe, really, I just needed to calm down. This was more about me. She congratulated me on seeking help. So what about my love? How could she know that it wasn’t real, and how could I know whether it was? Her answer to that was square, pink, and weighed 50 mg. It was new, and it should work for me.
It did work. After only a few days of having started my new regimen (I respond quickly to chemicals) I was feeling better, calmer, the colours were brighter, the sounds more crystalline. I felt a need to get out of myself, to socialize again, to walk around town, to enjoy, to share, to talk. My feelings for the doctor hadn’t changed, but I stopped worrying about them. As ageless as he was in my memory, on paper or in digital form, I found that as time passed he was gaining more charm.
//
Comfortably installed under a skylight, my serotonin levels in check, I was waiting for my friends. I had arrived early, and they were late, so I was already on my way to an afternoon buzz in the midst of a first glass of champagne. The interior of the restaurant was a success, the light was beaming all over but I didn’t want to protect my eyes, I was in for the full spectrum. Families were lunching, couples sharing dishes, friends discussing the exhibition next door. I was feeling great, entertained by the conversations around, living by the second and not minding it, I could have waited forever as long as my glass remained half full, and that it was my favourite drink.
A man approached my table. He was tall, handsome, in a suit, classic shoes, clean cut, white shirt, I think, I liked that. Rudely I looked him up and down. An embarrassed grin on my face served as an apology, and he smiled, and I smiled back, and he said something about the absence of technology on my table, in my hands. I was neither on the phone nor on the internet or sending a text. I was simply sitting there. He asked me if I was alright and then said he liked that about me, that I looked calm, safe in solitude even if reassured that company was coming. I could have said I was medicated, but that would have made for a bad first impression; plus I was still myself, even if in the old days I would have had a book with me.
Except where stated, all material copyright © Emmanuelle Dauplay.