MADMAN - John R. Suler, Ph.D. - copyright 1995
Chapter 21 - Analysis
Fred stopped me on the way out. "Are you sure you're feeling all right?" "Why do you ask?" I replied, and coughed - which sent a stabbing pain through my head.
"All I can say is that if I were you, I'd take it easy. Remember that Dr. Stein is the director in charge of things around here. And it's very easy to get on his shit list - and when you're on that list, life can be hell."
"Hell hath no fury like a narcissist's scorn," I mumbled, then cleared my throat. "Yeah, you're right Fred. I've got to take it easy. I'm not quite...myself, lately."
"You look like you need to talk to someone," he stated simply.
His comment triggered my internal alarm. Warning! Warning! I looked at my watch. "Oh shit! I've got to go. See you later."
How could I have so completely forgotten? "Get a grip on yourself," the doorknob said as I exited from the unit. Running down the hallway I calculated that I would arrive approximately ten minutes late to my analyst's office. God, my brain is coming apart at the seams. Worst of all, my analyst will surely interpret my tardiness as resistance - and maybe he's right. I can't even remember what happened in last session. Psychoanalysis is supposed to be the most important thing in your life; you're supposed to have intense feelings about your analyst, otherwise you're not in analysis. And I don't. Something is definitely wrong here. Maybe it's still too early - I've only been seeing him for a few months and a nice robust transference can take a year or more to blossom. Then again, maybe my forgetting the appointment is a sign of transference. Or maybe I'm suffering from some unanalyzable personality disorder that I never knew was there - or from something even deeper, even worse.
Normally I'd easily laugh off such notions, but today I felt too fragile to defeat any doubts about anything. "It's not me," I said to the elevator doors. "It's this internship - too much situational stress."
"Sssssure," the doors hissed as they opened.
Before stepping in, I realized I had not checked the arrows. Damn! It was on its way up. Just another blunder. Then I remembered I had parked my car in the back lot and couldn't get to it from the elevator anyhow. Blunders within blunders. Turning on my heels I ran down the hall towards the library. Memories of grand rounds bounced at me with each step. THEY were doing it to me - Mobin and Doe. They're conspiring to drive me crazy - why shit, I'm already crazy. Look at me, I'm paranoid. But what is it about them that gets to me? Just a decompensating schizophrenic and a man with no memory.
The cursors on the computer monitors blinked at me as I raced through the library. On and off, on and off. Now you see 'em, now you don't. Doe drives me crazy because I just can't seem to get a handle on him. Every time I think I understand him, he slips away. One minute he seems real and the next he's... he's...he's what? Not real? Then what the hell is he if he's not real? A ghost? An illusion? A machine? That's it - a robot, an invading android from another planet, from another dimension, programmed to absorb the minds of us earthlings.
"You're living in fiction," the librarian said without looking up from her book.
And bad fiction at that. For a brief second an image flickered through my thoughts - too fast for me to decipher it clearly. I was standing on a dark street, talking to someone - or something like that. It faded quickly.
How could Stein have found Doe superficial? At the very least the guy is intelligent. That accounts for a certain amount of depth to the personality, doesn't it? Then again, being intelligent doesn't mean diddly-squat when it comes to mental health. Some of the craziest patients we had on the unit were extremely bright, even gifted. One guy was the president of a major corporation - a brilliant businessman, rich, powerful, creative - successful by anyone's standards. Every night after work, he'd lock himself into the bathroom, take a shit, and spend an hour or so playing with his turds.
Sometimes humans just don't make sense.
Reminds me of a joke. A guy gets a flat tire in front of a mental hospital. While putting on the spare, he notices a mental patient watching him from behind the gates of the hospital. It makes him a bit uneasy, and he accidentally knocks over the hubcap where he had placed all the lug-nuts. They spill down a drain and disappear. "Shit," the man says in desperation, "Now what the hell am I going to do?" "Why don't you take one nut off of each of the other three tires," the patient calls out to him, "and use them to put on the spare." "Why that's a great idea," the man replies cheerfully. "Say, what are you doing in this hospital, you seem to be a smart fellow." "Well," the patient replied, "I may be crazy but I'm not stupid."
"Maybe your patient is trying to cure himself," Hippocrates interrupted from his pedestal at the bottom of the stairway.
Now there's an idea from the father of medicine himself. Maybe Doe was walking along the highway deliberately so that he would be picked up. He didn't plan that consciously, of course. Unconsciously he was seeking help. In all of us, even the most pathological, there must be an internal drive towards self-healing, even if it means enlisting the help of others as aids in transforming ourselves. If that spark ever disappears, the fight is over, you're a goner. Doe's lapse into memory loss and identitylessness might be an attempt towards healing. Amnesia may be more than just the massive repression of painful memories and emotions - it wipes the slate clean and gives you a chance to start over. Like my magic writing board when I was a kid - I'd draw on it with the stylus, and when I got tired of the picture, I'd peel up the clear plastic overlay, make it all disappear, and start over.
It was surprisingly cold and windy outside. The sky was steel gray. I turned up my collar and hurried to the car. "The analyst has to enter each session without memory, desire, or understanding" Who was it who said that? Bion?
Just a few steps away. Shit, is it cold or what? There's no fending off winter now. Getting inside the Nova offered some relief from the biting wind.
I have to admit that there's some truth to what Stein said. Maybe Doe does use his amnesia to create a place that is safe, protected - a world where there are no names, no identities. Nothing can touch you or hurt you because there is no one there to be touched or hurt. It's a secure little nest sealed off from the horrors of the outside world. But it's also possible that there IS a very real identity below the mask of namelessness, and his not telling me who he is could be an unconscious test, a test that I have to pass before he will allow me to move to that deeper level of understanding him. But what kind of test is it? Does he unconsciously want me to persist in finding out who he is, or will he only build trust in me if I leave him alone. Or both? It could be both. Patients are always putting us clinicians in damned-if-you-do-and-damned-if-you-don't dilemmas. Those double-binds are red flags signaling that the therapy has stumbled onto an important unconscious conflict.
At the security booth Jon waved me down. No time to chat, but I stopped anyhow. The tiny door to the booth was closed and Jon had his feet resting on a portable heater. His book was in his lap. I envied him - tucked away into his cozy little space, a safe distance from everything, all toasty next to his heater. Why didn't I have a job like that?
"Greetings and felicitations, Dr. Holden!" he said as he opened the top panel of the door and popped his head out like a jack-in-the-box. "Say, you look a little under the weather."
I snapped at him. "You know, I'm getting tired of people commenting on my state of being."
Displacement. That all too familiar defense mechanism. I hated myself for taking my frustrations out on Jon.
"My, my - a bit touchy today, aren't we?" he said. He seemed unaffected by my attack.
"I'm sorry, Jon. I'm having a bad day."
"All days are bad days, or good days, depending on how you perceive it."
"Yeah, right, and I think it's gonna get worse before it gets better, if it ever gets better."
"Such optimism warms my heart. But say - cheer up, Thomas. Haven't you heard the news?"
"No. What?"
"There's a snow warning. And they say it might be a big one. I've always loved snow storms - it's something about the way they bring the bureaucracy to a halt."
"That's great," I said cynically. "If I can only get away from my damn work so I can go outside and build a snowman."
"Think of it this way," Jon replied, "They may let you go home early."
"With my luck, I'll get snowed into the building. Listen, I'd like to talk, but I'm late for an appointment. See you later."
"Farewell, melancholy prince," Jon said as I pulled away.
A snowstorm. I couldn't decide if it would be an adventure or a major pain in the butt. As a kid I never considered snowstorms a nuisance. Must be a sign that I'm getting old. What would I do if I did end up snowbound in the hospital? It would make claustrophobia look like a walk in the park. I'd have to spend all night with my patients - with Mobin and Doe... Maybe I could bunk with them. Oh, wouldn't that be glorious? But it's been done before - a few renegade psychologists have already experimented with rooming with their patients, even inviting them to come live in their homes. Imagine that - Mobin and Doe sitting around the dinner table with the family? Excuse me, Richard, could you please pass the fish?
An idea struck me as I drove along Mondo Road, which circled around the top of the hill. Maybe I have to try something unorthodox with Doe - something that would catch him off-guard - something that would help me find out whether or not he's lying.... That's it! How about a lie detection test? There's a psychophysiology laboratory on the second floor, and I had plenty of training on that type of equipment in graduate school. All I'd have to do would be to find an excuse to get Doe off the unit.
How can someone not know who they are? How can your memories of your past and identity be cleanly excised from your personality, but everything else you need to remember in order to function in the world remains intact? Is the mind really that powerful, that precise? People have to have a history to survive, to be human. Of course, what constitutes one's personal history is a highly subjective manner. If ten people, including myself, described my history, we'd wind up with ten different tales. Sure, there would be some overlap, but I bet even the basic themes would vary from one story to the next. So which one is the "right" history? Maybe "history" is the wrong word. Sounds too objective - like there is a camera suspended in space over your head, recording your life just as it happened. No, it's a much more subjective process than that. We look back over our lives and try to make sense out of the almost infinite mass of things that we did and experienced. We rummage through all the thousands of memories and selectively order pieces of them into a narrative that contains all the elements of a good story - plots and subplots, characters, development, climax, denouement. It's just as much fiction as fact. It's our own personal creation designed to make sense out of who we are. And the story is probably chock full of omissions. We don't remember everything about our past; in fact, we have forgotten - repressed, technically speaking - a great deal, probably some very important parts. There may be more of us in the holes in our story than in the rest.
Doe is one big hole.
I wonder what it's like to suffer from amnesia. As a kid I once fell off a swing and banged my head - or so they told me. Actually, I don't think I fell. I think I was jumping off at the peak of the swing to see how far I could fly. It was something I did a lot. But I can't remember that particular incident. It was a case of retrograde amnesia in which trauma to the head physically disrupts the storage of the memories just prior to the accident. But there's also anterograde amnesia in which you can't create new memories after the accident. I remember reading about a guy in a car accident who afterwards experienced no problems in his memory of past events in his life - but he couldn't consolidate any new memories. The doctors would give him a funny story to read, and when he finished it he laughed. A few minutes later they gave it to him again, and when he finished reading it a second time, he laughed. They did it over and over, and each time he read it and laughed - because each time it was completely new to him; he couldn't remember having read it a few minutes before. The guy was living moment to moment with no ability to remember ongoing events. The same sort of thing can happen in degenerative brain diseases - like Alzheimers. Gradually, over the course of months, you forget everything - your past, your present, your loved ones - who you are. Needless to say, a severe depression sets in as you realize your mind is disintegrating and your identity is slipping away. It's interesting, though, that at some advanced stage the depression lifts: Your brain has so fallen apart that you don't even realize that your brain is falling apart.
A chill went up my spine. The thought was terrifying.
I pulled into my analyst's driveway. On this side of the hill, his house had a nice view of the mountains far in the distance. Not only was my analyst lucky enough to live close to the medical center, where he was an adjunct, but he also owned prime real estate. Some people have it all.
A woman in a Mercedes passed me on her way out. She looked content - a little vacuous, but content. I was tempted to roll down the window, wave, and shout "Hi there! Have a good catharsis?" But I didn't. After all, this was my analyst's house and that could be his wife. Wouldn't it be grand to have your office in your home? Just stroll out of the bedroom and into your office. Of course, you'd have to worry about how it would tantalize those borderline patients who long to be your son, daughter, or spouse - or the paranoids who really want to know about your toilet habits. Make sure you pull down the shades.
Exactly why am I in analysis? I tell myself I'm doing it as part of my training - to experience what my patients will experience, to be more aware of my own neurosis so it won't interfere with my clinical work. But is that a good enough reason? Is that the real reason? It could be a defense. At some point I have to become a patient - REALLY become a patient, and not just a trainee looking for information. I have to acknowledge the fact that I really do have problems to work on, that I have to let go and yield to the healing process that is psychoanalysis rather than just tinker with it as a curious but secretly detached dilettante.... At least that's what they tell me.... But I hate it. I hate shelling out the money, even though he did reduce his fee for me. I hate having to jam more hours of training into my already packed schedule. But most of all, I hate talking to someone about my problems, exposing myself, being vulnerable. Some people say that they love analysis. For me it's a chore, something I have to do. Maybe that's my problem - compulsive and over-achieving. Grandiose ambitions. Maybe the indication of success in my analysis would be my letting myself quit .
I never see any other patients in the waiting room. How can that be? Does the guy before me slip out some side entrance that I don't know about - or maybe through the window? Every time I arrive I find that half-smoked cigar in the ashtray and the smell of stale smoke in the air. That must have been his wife in the Mercedes - unless she smokes cigars. What would Freud say about that?
My nasal cavities felt like someone had poured in oatmeal. Got to clear my head out. I rummaged through my knapsack for another decongestant. Without my notebook, the knapsack felt conspicuously depleted. Where the hell is it? I didn't bother getting water from the bathroom - I swallowed the capsule dry. It stuck in my throat and burned like a stubborn little ball of fire. Life is full of loose ends. Pieces that don't fit together to make a whole puzzle.
As I swallowed again and again, trying to wash down that irritating bugger of a capsule, I looked around the waiting room. I never could figure it out. Some analysts try to keep their office as inconspicuous as possible so their patients know as little as possible about them. It's intensifies transference. Others decorate their place using simplicity and taste - an environment that's pleasing to the eye. Still others, the narcissistic types, go the opulent route to impress their patients with their success, to convince them that high fees mean an elite analytic atmosphere in all respects.
My analyst's waiting room didn't fit any of those categories. It contained a hodgepodge of decorations that conveyed no rhyme or reason. While some of it appeared tasteful, even elegant, some of the stuff, to be quite blunt, was rather tacky or bizarre. There were the two paintings of a cat by Van Gogh - one realistic, the other quite wild and surrealistic - which clashed horribly with the poster of a sad-faced clown sitting on top of a globe. There was the wood Victorian coat rack with one leg slightly shorter than the other two, which made it lean precariously to the left - and next to it, a table that tried to pass for a Japanese antique, but failed, being it was made of very cheap looking plastic. Most perplexing of all was that statue in the corner - a monkey, with it's tail wrapped around a book, climbing a tree. Where the hell did he get that? And what was the rationale behind his decor? He was a bright guy - there must be a plan. Perhaps it was his way of stirring up our unconscious fantasies, or making sure we stayed crazy. In a very ingenious way, maybe the hodgepodge prevented us from knowing what HIS taste really was - like excess noise in the broadcast that hides the signal. I heard through the grapevine that he was something of an expert on patients with multiple personality disorders. Surely this waiting room could serve as entertainment for their internal world. But most frightening of all was the possibility that he liked the aesthetics of this look, that this room reflected something about his personality.
The door to his office opened. There, standing in the doorway with the window casting a dazzling bright backlight around him, my analyst appeared as a god-like figure - Prometheus carrying fire to us mortals. Except, however, that he was a short man, neatly dressed in a dark suit, a bit overweight, slightly balding. Without the suit, instead wearing jeans and a sweatshirt, you'd probably never guess him to be an analyst if you met him at the supermarket. Could be a salesman, a white collar worker, even an accountant. You'd never suspect that for a living he probes people's minds.
The second I saw him, a funny feeling came over me. I wanted something from him - desperately. But I didn't quite know what it was. Sure, I wanted him to like me, to find me outstandingly intelligent, witty, and creative, to think that I was the most fascinating patient he ever had, to love me - most of which didn't seemed to be the case, much to my deflated ego. We had talked about such issues. No, it was something else.
"Come in, Thomas," he said in his usual polite minimalist style. He followed classical technique - though on occasion he loosened up a bit.
I followed him into the office. There before me, waiting solemnly, was the symbol of analysis - the couch. It immediately caught one's eye - not because it was particularly large or stylish, but rather that it was intrapsychically BIG. It's various meanings were limitless and powerful. It's the opportunity to relax, to slip into a dream-like state where the unconscious runs free. It stands for submission, or dependency, or retreat, or sex. It embraces some people and swallows up others. You can feel more cozy with your analyst or hide from those staring eyes.
I sat down on the edge, swung my feet up, and dropped down. No thoughts came to me. Nothing. Shit, resistance already! I stared up at the walls and ceiling - that same old crack in the corner, that splotch of white paint accidentally brushed onto the light fixture, the chipped edge of the fan.... The world is not quite right. Something is amiss.
I tried to remember what we talked about last time, but couldn't. Come on, Holden, free associate! Just describe whatever thoughts, feelings, or images come to mind. Like Freud said, pretend your sitting on a train, watching the scenery roll by - just describe it! Now the oatmeal was in my brain and mouth. The train, bogged down in it, was going nowhere fast. I feared that if I tried to talk only indecipherable gurgles and chugs would come out.
Finally, I forced myself to speak. I described some things that happened to me during the week - none of which were important, and I knew it. It sounded stale, lifeless. A laundry list of irksome details, a report card with nothing to say. How pathetic! My own patients do this to me all the time - and if given the chance, I'd roll my eyes and yawn. Come on, get to the real stuff!
My analyst remained quiet. I couldn't hear anything from him - not even the scratching of his pen on the pad. Was I boring him? How humiliating to come across as boring while you try desperately to reveal your unconscious... Was that a yawn? He had the advantage of sitting behind me, unseen. He could yawn if he wanted to and get away with it. When I'm with my patients I have to stifle my yawns or do it without opening my mouth - the Art of the Nose-Yawn. That's one of the advantages of having your patients on the couch. They can't see you yawning or scratching your crotch.... Was that a snore? No way, he couldn't have fallen asleep. I was tempted to turn around to look, but also afraid. What if he WAS asleep, or even worse, what if he wasn't there? What if my boredom had evaporated him, annihilated him - or if he simply left the room and abandoned me? My imagination ran wild. Analysts do sometimes fall asleep on their patients. At times it's almost happened to me. I feel like I can't keep my eyes open - they roll back in my head and I blink out for just a second. I have to pinch myself or bite my lip to stay awake. The sleepiness may be a sign that something big is stifling the atmosphere - massive repression, denial, anger, depression, narcissistic emptiness.
"Thomas, there seems to be something else on your mind," he said calmly. He wasn't fooled. He was listening.
I sighed, and the floodgates opened. I talked about my patients - about Elizabeth, Mr. Tennostein, Kathy Baso - about Mobin and Doe. I talked about grand rounds and Dr. Stein. I talked about the woman from radiology, about my notebook and coming down with the flu. I talked and talked until I lost track of the time, and when I ran out of breath, when my brain felt too scrambled to continue, I stopped - and waited.
What would he say? What deep interpretation would he make to clarify my torment?
"You're under a tremendous amount of stress," he said."Maybe you should take some time off."
I was shocked. Supportive advice instead of an interpretation! He never did that before. I wasn't sure what to say. I felt a bit angry that yet another person was telling me to take it easy, but I also felt touched. He actually sounded kind, concerned.
"Uh, yeah, I really could use some time off - but I can't right now."
"Why not?"
"Uh, well, uh... this thing with Mobin, for instance. He's a real hot potato and I shouldn't leave right now and dump him on another therapist. I have to ride out what's happening with him, at least until he cools down some."
"What is it about this patient that captures you?"
"Well, he's potentially violent - and since I underplayed that in my reports to the staff, I feel responsible. I really think I should stick it out until I have a more accurate assessment of him. I owe that much to the staff."
"But the staff is very much aware of how dangerous he is, even if you did underplay it. The director and chief resident both interviewed him. There is something else about this patient that troubles you, that makes it difficult for you distance yourself from him."
"I don't know what you mean."
Playing stupid? I wasn't even sure myself. My analyst didn't hesitate in continuing. "I imagine that it's the depth of his rage - and his psychosis. It scares you, it would scare anyone. But instead of running away, you try to run into it headfirst."
"But why would I do that?"
"Maybe you also feel anger."
Angry? I didn't feel particularly angry. Yet I noticed that both my fists were clenched tight. My thoughts raced. Anger about what? At whom? And what about being afraid of Mobin's psychosis? Was he implying that I also identified with Mobin's insanity? He didn't come right out and say it, but.... No, you're reading too much into it. It's projection. But if it's projection then I really must believe it myself. Maybe deep down inside I AM psychotic. Maybe we're all psychotic.... I should tell him what I'm thinking. It's bad enough to resist unconsciously, but doing it consciously is downright unproductive.
"What are you thinking?" he asked patiently.
"Nothing, I'm just feeling confused."
"You seem to be withdrawing into yourself, away from me. It reminds me of all that you've been saying today so far. You seem to be withdrawing from everyone, retreating into yourself. I imagine that you feel alienated from everyone and everything. But at the same time, you want so much to attach yourself to something."
"It's funny. That reminds me of something. I remember a dream I had - last night I think. It's kind of hazy. I was on a grassy hill somewhere, overlooking the ocean. And there was a lawn mower, or a... no, it was a lawn mower....That's all that I can remember."
"Was that the same dream you had about Doe?"
"What dream about Doe? Did I mention a dream about Doe?"
"Yes."
Suddenly I felt very confused, almost panicky. "I don't remember mentioning that."
"O.K. Then tell me more about this dream. What comes to mind when you think of a lawn mower?"
"Well, I think of mowing the lawn at my house when I was a kid. That was my job. I hated it. Why should I have to mow the lawn while my father watches T.V. or goes out to play softball. But I did it anyhow."
"Is there more?"
"Well, I remember one time when I turned the lawn mower off to clean out some grass that was clogging the chute. I didn't realize that even though I had shut the motor off, the blade was still spinning. So when I stuck my hand into the chute, the blade sliced the tip of my finger. I went running for my father, but I couldn't find him. There was blood everywhere. Finally, he came jumping over the fence from the neighbor's yard and took me into the house and wrapped my finger. He gave me a shot of whiskey before he called the doctor. I remember lying there on the couch thinking that I would never be able to use my hand again, that I wouldn't even be able to write.... Then I fainted."
"Your patient Doe reminds you of your father in some respects, doesn't he?"
A door inside my thoughts opened - just a crack, but it opened. "In some ways, I guess. He doesn't always seem to be there when I look for him. He seems so distant, untouchable - at least sometimes he seems that way. But other times.... I don't know."
"You feel a closeness with him... and also a kind of competition," my analyst answered. "It's a feeling of trying to better him in some way, trying to catch his attention and prove something to him. It hides the feeling of closeness."
"Prove something? Prove what? He's just a patient! He doesn't even know who he is!"
"What is it about what I said that makes you angry?"
"I don't know. That interpretation seems so.. so intrusive. Everyone seems so goddamn intrusive today. Even Doe. I can't figure out who the hell he is and he acts so damn elusive, but sometimes he digs right into me."
"That play on the words 'elusive' and 'intrusive' - that rhyme - seems important. What about the intrusive part? What does that remind you of?"
The door cracked open another inch. "You mean like my mother? Always intruding, manipulating, expecting something of me. I guess Doe's like that, I don't know."
"You do seem to perceive Doe as having singled you out, as expecting something special from you - as did your mother. And you think you have to comply, to please him, to live up to whatever it is he wants. Your feelings about Doe are complex, quite contradictory and ambivalent. You perceive him as distant, disappearing - but also as intrusive and demanding. He has taken on many meanings for you, many identities."
It made sense. But something was missing. I closed my eyes and focused on a place deep in my thoughts - a place that had not been touched. Outside the window, the wind whistled and a tree branch tapped against the glass pane. Someone whispered to me, at first so softly that I could not decipher it, then louder, clearer:
"It's still running."
The river is cool, deep. I notice, in the distance, something floating towards my canoe. It drifts closer, and closer. It's a corpse. Gently bumping into the side of the canoe, it turns face up in the water. I recognize it. It's me.
"Our time is up." Like a pebble dropped into water, the voice sent ripples through the imagery around me. For a brief moment, some distorted fragments lingered - a cup of coffee, my feet stretched out on a cyclone fence, the mailman delivering a letter - and then, they were gone.
"Thomas, our time is up."
Who calls me Thomas? - my mother, sometimes Jon, and...
I sat upright on the couch. My analyst!
"Did I fall asleep?"
"Yes, you did," he replied.
"I'm sorry. I was on call last night and I, uh - well, I guess I'll see you next week."
He nodded. I got my things together and headed for the door.
"And Thomas," he called after me, "Think about taking a few days off."
I felt embarrassed. Falling asleep in analysis. Is that resistance or what? I wasn't a very good patient. But I needed the sleep - I was tired, sick. Maybe it was a good thing. But if it was so good how come I still felt tired and fogged in - even worse than before. No doubt he thought it was therapeutic to let me sleep. Why? A sign of trust on my part - the willingness to let go? Then again, maybe he just assumed that I needed the rest. That was nice of him.
Then I felt angry. What kind of job is it for him to just sit there and get paid while I sleep? It's a waste of my time and money. He should have waken me up and interpreted it as resistance or as progress or anything. Wouldn't that be more productive?
Ooops! What's this anger about. Transference of some kind?
Confusion set in. I tried to remember exactly what happened in the session, but only bits and pieces came back to me. Doe represents my father and mother? Can one person unconsciously represent both your father and mother? Sounds like Super-Psychoanalytic Psychobabble to me. My mother encouraged me to get good grades in school, to be smart, to be the best. If I got a 99 on a test she would want to know why I didn't get a 100. I could never seem to do it just right for her. So what does that have to do with Doe? Why would I try to please him?
"It's all a lot of crap!" I shouted out the window of my car.
"Me thinks you doth protest too much," replied an old man walking along the road.
Denial as a defense? Is there some truth to this? I remembered the grassy hill, the ocean, a canoe... a woman's face, her eyes - were they blue or brown? The Nova speeds up. As I press down on the accelerator, I notice a plastic cup stuck in the branches of a bush. It's dirty, torn, crumpled. Long ago it had been discarded and forgotten. And now it just sits there, caught on that inconspicuous bush, among hundreds of other bushes, on an obscure patch of land. I'm the only one to notice it. No eyes, no thoughts will ever fall on it again. And eventually I too will completely forget it. This conscious moment will evaporate and disappear forever .
Suddenly, something appears in the road ahead of me. I swerve to get out of the way... Thump, thump!... My reactions are too slow. I ran over it! In the rearview mirror I spot something lying in the road. What is it? As I try to decide what to do, the thing fades into the distance. Got to stop! I veer the car over to the side of the road, get out, and run back to the scene of the crime. Why didn't I just backup the car!
It's a lump of flattened-out meat, bones, and patches of fur. Steam rises up from it into the cold air. I can't tell for sure what kind of animal it was. Was I the one who first hit it? I want to get closer, to see, but there are other cars coming around the bend of the hill... Thump, thump... Some of the wheels miss, but some don't.... Thump, thump.
I run to the side of the road, fall onto my hands and knees, and puke.