Uttuku

The Books of Darkness

by Robert N. Stephenson

Chapter 9

part 2 of 2

I couldn’t go to Sarina’s first thing, though I really wanted to. I had to see my shrink, get more meds and pass his questions. It became a game I played every week, like a period, it just didn’t stop because you wanted it to.

I sat in the high-backed, winged, leather chair, a cushion behind me for support. The room, dull illumination, looked more like a nice, private library. Dr Sholan’s desk, rich mahogany inlaid with green leather looked as neat and tidy as he did.

At five-ten I wouldn’t have called myself tall, but he only came up to my shoulder. About fifty, thin and balding, in his simple grey suit and round-rimmed glasses he cut a perfect figure of an old European psychiatrist. I felt comfortable, at ease; throw in a couple of cigars and the scene would have been perfect.

“How are you today?” he asked, the obvious Austrian or German accent pleasant.

“Pretty crappy, really. How are you?” Best to be honest with him, he’d work it out anyway.

“Thoughts of suicide.” Raised eyebrows.

“Not this week.”

“Before this week?”

Oh hell, I’d gone the wrong way in the conversation again; last time we went this route I ended up in a private mental home making pottery fists. I still had one in my bag, as a reminder to steer away from suicide.

“An idle thought. Got better things to do with my life than that.” He relaxed, wrote a note on his pad. I wondered what he’d make of vampires, being from that part of the world. More or less.

“Our last talk stopped when we got to your mother and father,” he said.

“As I said, we aren’t going there.”

“What about them concerns you, angers you so much?”

“Next question.” He always wanted the family bit. The connection between depression and growing up in a household of troubled lives. Dr Sholan wrote a few notes. I couldn’t read his fine print.

“Do you think your father is the cause of your preference for female company?”

“You won’t let it drop, will you?”

“It angers you, so I am concerned.”

“I’m a lesbian because I really, really like women. Always have since a little girl. Never thought about boys, never kissed one or even had sex with one. Got it?” He nodded, didn’t write. This wasn’t for the file.

“I tried to tell my parents, didn’t work out well. Didn’t change how I thought or felt, so I followed the path life had given me. Simple.”

Again, thoughtful: “We’ll come back to this one day,” he said, tone lower, gentler.

“Have you been having visions. Hearing voices?” The checklist.

“No.” Do Ta’ibahs count?

“Do you think you have behaved in a manner that might be reckless. Taking unusual risks.”

I laughed. If only I could tell him. I saw a ghost in my house and had sex with a vampire who was being hunted by the evilest power known to mankind. Risks! Hah!

“You find that funny, why?”

“I’m a writer.” I kept a very forced smile going. “About the only risk I take is going to the shop to buy milk.” Now he smiled.

He sat back, placing his pen on the desk with exacting motion. I liked this little man, his thoughtfulness and no-fuss manner helped me open up, well, as much as I was prepared to any way.

“Do you feel high or down today?”

“Well, crap is better, but I guess really down.”

“Anything happen lately that might have triggered this feeling?” Again raised eyebrows. “A ghost perhaps?”

“Ghosts!” I felt sick.

“It is common, in severe mental cases to see ghosts, or people who are not there.”

A coincidence. “No, no ghosts.” Did I just answer too quickly?

“Any pressures on you?”

“Pressure of a few deadlines.” I lied. “Late nights working, being by myself most of the time. I guess it’s got to me a bit. Worn me thin.” It wasn’t quite the truth. Being down in the darkness had become normal lately.

He looked at my file, flipping pages, reading. “I might increase the Efexor by seventy-five milligrams a day and give you some Valproate to stabilize your mood.”

“Side effects?”

“Any from Efexor?”

“Not that I’ve noticed.”

“Then this should be fine, but read the insert in the box to understand side effects that you could experience.” He wrote a prescription. “If they are severe, come back and see me immediately, no need for an appointment, just come in.”

“Thanks.”

“I do need to ask you about alcohol.” This time he looked over his glasses, a little look down the nose. “Your last blood test showed abnormalities in your LFTs. Caused by too much alcohol.”

“I do like a few drinks now and again.” The frown deepened. “It helps me sleep. Makes me feel less depressed.”

“You know drinking isn’t a good way to deal with bi-polar?” I nodded. “And drinking on medication isn’t advised.”

“I know.”

“If you want to feel better, Diana, really feel better, we’ll have to look at your alcohol consumption.”

“Today?”

“No, not today.” He laughed; a light sound, friendly. “But eventually.”

I leaned forward and he handed me the prescription. Time remained to talk, but he always let me leave when I felt I had to, and stay longer if it helped.

“I’d like to see you in a couple of weeks, get some more blood tests done to check your epillim levels, TFT, LFT, maybe get an ECG to check your heart.”

“Should I know what that all means?”

“Do you want to?”

“Not really. I’m sure you’d tell me if there was anything serious to deal with.”

“Bi-polar depression is serious, Diana.”

“I know.” I shook his hand as I opened the office door. “Thank you. I’ll make an appointment with the receptionist.”

“Thank you,” he said. “It is always a pleasure talking to a fellow writer.”

Dr Sholan was indeed a writer, he wrote books on the psychoanalysis of famous people in history. When I didn’t feel like the great black dog was biting my arse, I’d get one of his books.

The appointment made, I headed into the sunshine. The happy day most people enjoyed. I had nothing to be happy about. Even my old yellow Volvo looked depressed.

This link goes to the book website.