Stephen B. O'Shea Unit 3 English Folio Piece 1994TherapyI A man, with wrist-watch on his arm And briefcase in his sweaty palm Walks in the room where I exist He is a great psychiatrist He's previously cured many patients With counselling, not operations His specialty is healing minds His name is Doctor David Hines And as he sits down on a bench He's confident that he can quench The ailments of my mental health He greets me and presents himself, And then proceeds to probe my brain I talk of sadness, grief and pain He sorts the facts out as they stand He has a mighty task at hand For all my answers are quite short And with reluctance I am fraught He fights against my sad sensation He tries to kill my desolation His knowledge and experience Helps him to counter my defense The doctor, Hines, is brave to dice With failure; the wrong advice Could send my mood down an abyss But thoughts like this must be dismissed. It seems he cannot be defied With facts and logic on his side And yet, when he walks out the door, I'm no more happy than before. For ages I will stay this glum There will be many talks to come. II I've been getting help in session after session with the shrink And my parents come as well, to tell the doctor what I think. They do most of the discussion, I just sit there and agree 'Cause they're pretty accurate with what they say about me. Do these sessions help to stamp out the depression in my life? I don't know. It's peace of mind, though, for my father and his wife. So I do a psychological assessment, and it's done By a competent psychologist who rates second to none An associate of Doctor Hines, she comes to me and smiles And says "Hello Stephen, how are you? My name is Tonya Miles. I'll be doing your assessment, so just come along with me." And we go into her office which is tidy as can be. The assessment of my mind commences without any hitches There are puzzles to solve, words to define, and cards with pictures Where I have to say what's missing, and there's patterns to arrange And there's other tests abounding, some of them so very strange That I'm laughing. Tonya Miles says "Steve, you must be thinking 'Hell, This assessment is so easy, it's just crazy!', I can tell." So I must be doing well, although it's not the sort of test Where you get a certain score, but still you have to do your best. Six weeks later, I am in a different room. We have a meeting Doctor Hines and Tonya Miles and I are seated on the seating And my Mum and Dad are also present, waiting to receive The results of the assessment, so important to their Steve "The results", says Doctor Hines "are fairly good news all around. Stephen has a high intelligence, his sanity is sound. He's creative, though the down-side is his social interaction Skills leave much to be desired." The Doctor pauses for a fraction Of a second. "There's a label that can be applied to this Group of symptoms. I can tell you, though some people would dismiss This as useless. Would you like to know the name?" Mum nods her head. "Stephen has Asperger's Syndrome." I can't follow what he said. Tonya Miles writes down the spelling on a handy piece of paper Sayin' "It's not like a disease, for you alone are the shaper Of your mind. I'm not condemning you to madness; you are able To avoid it. So don't think you are imprisoned by this label." III My mind is settling into a routine. The sessions with the shrink get far apart Does Doctor Hines think I am getting happy? 'Cause at this rate my joy will never start. My parents come to each and every session There's feelings that I'm keeping deep inside And while the end of '92 grows closer, The importance of my counselling has died. Eventually the Doctor says he's leaving He says "So, we could let the sessions go, Or you could start to talk to someone different Like Tonya Miles, since she's the one you know. You would be seeing her without your parents Just you and her. The choice is yours to make." And while I am agreeing to see Tonya, I harbour fears it could be a mistake. My problems, and my feelings and emotions, Are things I can't sufficiently discuss. Alone with Tonya, I could well be silent Incapable of finding words, and thus The sessions would be useless. But I'll risk it 'Cause sessions with my parents are a bore. On March the twenty fourth I meet with Tonya, She leads me to her office as before. We sit down on the armchairs which are comfy She asks me several questions to begin She quizzes me to get some information About the situation that I'm in. My answers show no sign of my depression If this goes on she'll get the wrong idea She'll think that I am happy, and the purpose Of this appointment will be made unclear. It seems we're running out of conversation And then she asks me "Stephen, tell me true Have you been feeling melancholy lately? Depressed? Are these the feelings had by you?" I answer "Yes." She asks "Is there a reason For you to feel so sad in recent years?" I say "Well I don't know, perhaps I'm lonely And feeling isolated from my peers... IV There is a shell around my mind. It is intangible but it is there. I can see through it from the inside But from the outside, it is opaque. The path into the shell is clear - Things flow in, but barely anything comes out. With time it has grown thicker, stronger Bit by bit, slowly, imperceptibly, It has been reinforced, strengthened. Nothing can break the shell. It is indestructible There are doors in the shell... They have always been there, and They are locked. Only one person has a key Other people try to pick the locks, Very few people succeed, and things trickle out Then the doors close, so quick That people barely have time to remove their fingers. Many things go in Barely anything goes out. But once the doors are closed, They are still locked and it takes skill to re-open them And the shell remains, unweakened Nothing can stop it from getting stronger. And the thicker the shell is... The harder it is to see me inside it. Maybe one day they will... Forget... I am... In here... V What's this? I'm feeling rather strange I shudder; my surroundings change Oh no! I must have been asleep 'Twas all a dream. It's hard to keep Awake here in this waiting room Fluorescent lights above me loom I might have known I couldn't make A lengthy speech while I'm awake It was a vision, nothing more This long and drawn out metaphor "Where's Tonya Miles?", I think, and then She enters. Here we go again I follow her, and we are seated The whole fiasco is repeated And in the next few months it seems Our talks are nothing like my dreams My voice is soft, my answers short So Miles suggests a plan: I ought To correspond my thoughts in writing This prospect is, to me, inviting Time passes. Things are going better Each session I write Miles a letter She reads it out and I don't need To talk a lot, I just take heed Of her suggestions, come what may. I've come to like my sessions, they Are pleasant. I would say that this Thing called psychoanalysis Is like a drug. It stalls my woe I get addicted to it though For if my therapy departed I'd be depressed as when I started. |