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On many days, I hate my job.

Think about this a moment- think about a society where medical technology has
improved tremendously. The average lifespan of a human being is now ninety years-
maybe even more. Thatǯs nearly ten years more than the original average lifespan.
Infant mortality rates are at an all-time low of three-point-seven-two percent.

Think about a society where technology has so greatly improved. So much is


convenient now, and much more efficient. Seventy-point-two-five percent of
production facilities are now dominated one way or another by mechanical
production methods- excluding the human-dominated service sector, of course.

Think about a society where, faced with long lives, and world-taming technology,
novelty is a daily thing.

Think about this society- this paradise, this Arcadia of sorts, where humanity and
civilisation alike are free to flourish. In this environment, humanity seeks greater,
less tangible things, such as happiness, pleasure- or even spirituality.

Or so some in my profession suggest.

We all donǯt know, really. Thatǯs the first thing about my job: itǯs a joke. Hurtzǯs
Corollary has refined our understanding and prediction of weather patterns
following a Lorenz system. Dr Stephenson discovered renewable bioelectricity.
Through the continuously expanding frontiers of scientific knowledge, we grow to
understand the world and with knowledge comes prediction and control.

Show any seventeen year old college biology student a sequence of DNA, and heǯll be
able to translate the entire sequence that codes for a living organism. What will
seem like wonders to the men of a past age is now an ordinary miracle.

Iǯve yet to see a psychologist who can say with the same amount of certainty he
knows what heǯs doing.

Of course, I discriminate.

Neuropsychology, when working hand in hand with medical science, can often find
answers. But these are grounded in the scientific, and as most psychologists and
philosophers can resignedly tell you- when humans are involved, an extremely
random element is inevitably introduced into data.
This is particularly so for me because I specialise in humanistic psychology.

What is that, you might ask?

A humanistic psychologist, however, is a philosopher who hides behind the veneer


of science. We focus on comprehending the personal nature of the human
experience.

In reality: most psychologists end up working alongside psychiatrists, since a course


in medical psychology is compulsory for any certification. Unless they pursue
academic studies. Iǯm not one of them.

This is the second thing I hate about my job: there are too many people who come in
with problems and I canǯt begin to fix those. Because in a society where we have all
the answers, most people donǯt realise that sometimes, itǯs because we just havenǯt
asked the questions.

He comes in just before I was going to take the lift down to the ground floor and
head to Starbucks for a coffee break. I havenǯt had my cup of breakfast coffee yet,
because there was cloud cover this morning, and the reserve batteries on my solar-
powered wall-alarm just didnǯt kick in.

Mental note to self: drop by Lyleǯs place one of these days. I havenǯt seen him in ages,
although we used to be real close mates, back in college. Heǯs an engineering genius,
where Iǯm not, and handy with a screwdriver. Give him something to pry apart, and
he can tell you whatǯs wrong in minutes. Not like me- Dad knew I hadnǯt taken after
his engineering genes when I took apart his radio when I was five and we couldnǯt
put it back together again because Iǯd smashed part of the circuitry.

It was an old radio, one of those vintage black boxes with an antenna to receive
signals from radio stations. Iǯd press my ear to the speakers and listen to the pop
station all day. Then of course, I broke it, so Dad got one of those miniaturised
wireless ones.

But anyway, Iǯm a little grumpy, a little bleary-eyed and a little tired. Christina, my
receptionist gives a knowing look and asks me if Iǯd like her to bring a coffee back up
for me. Gratefully, I thank her, and tell her Iǯm ok with anything. She leaves, and I
gesture for my client to follow me into my office, brushing past the brass nameplate
with the etched letters:

DR EZEKIEL DOMINICK, Ph.D. (Psychology)


I sit behind my slightly cluttered desk, trying not to act like someone who rushed to
work this morning, on about five hours of sleep. I look at him carefully. First
impressions always count in my job- particularly when theyǯre backed by instincts.

Black hair- brown in the morning light that streams in from the large, metal-grey
framed glass office window behind me. He blinks light brown eyes in the bright light
and I go over to the window and pull down slitted blinds. I could use the remote, of
course, or switch on the polariser, but I like the light clean and pure, and it gives me
time to think.

Heǯs young and slight, I think, and a little attractive. Thereǯs a loose shirt and jeans
with a casual air of being worn too often- so it seems like Iǯve got another typical
scruffy fourteen year old on my hands.

Of course, his name has been instantly messaged to my notebook computer on the
austere table, but I ask for it anyway, to get him to start talking. DzDane Zackrie,dz He
says. I enter his particulars. He sounds startlingly mature, so I decide that I can
scratch Dzteenage rebelliousnessdz off the mental list in my brain. And no, heǯs sixteen.

I wait, and ask him to tell me why heǯs here.

I already know the answer. Heǯs been referred here. Most people do not want to
seek a psychologist or a psychiatrist. There is a stigma attached to this act.

It was actually quite easy to diagnose Dane. He was difficult to treat- and that was it.
In retrospect- that should have been a danger sign for me, warning me things were
more complicated than I had expected.

Diagnosis is the easy part. The test results are soon back, and he comes back again.
The motherǯs answer confirms what I think: rapid-cycling bipolar disorder- and Iǯm
quite sure of it. Translation: severe mood swings, including episodes of depression.

There are treatment options, and so many of them. A definite is the prescription- I
quickly write a prescription for some antidepressants and mood-stabilisers, and put
him down for several more sessions of psychotherapy.

And this second part is the harder part, when we talk to establish a rapport. He is
clearly intelligent, with a healthy sense of sarcastic humour. I learn that he hopes to
study visual art, and is clearly drawn in that direction. I ask him to show me samples
of his work in an effort to end his reticence- he brings a worn sketchbook, flips to
page after page of artwork.
I admire the skill put into the dragons that dance, furled across pages of paper, as
the uneducated Philistine wonders at any piece of art that seems marginally
competent, thinking his intellect can scratch only at the edges of a universal
transcendence that this artist has dipped his toes in.

My favourite, of course, was an apple, in watercolor, from the rosy hues of promising
red skin, and the shadows that gave it depth. It was pleasing to my eye, and I tossed
it, rolling it about and testing its smooth, polished weight in my mindǯs hand.

It had a weight to it, and the way the light gleamed weakly off it, it begged for
questions to be asked. Just that again, I felt perhaps the answers could be found- if
only I knew what the questions were to be asked.

And maybe, if I asked the right questions, I would find the answer to the question of
Dane Zackrie.

Treatment, normally, is easier than diagnosis. Most of the time, I only have to
prescribe medication, and get Christina to schedule another appointment a month
later, or longer.

With Dane, it is different.

I find out, weeks later, he has not been taking the medication.

I am angry, of course. How else can he hope to manage his condition, or to get
better? The prescriptions nowadays are not exactly lifelong, although this would
certainly be less invasive than an implant operation to stimulate endorphin
production in order to regulate mood swings.

He casts his head down and does not answer.

Our psychotherapy sessions enter a similar deadlock. The aim of cognitive


behavioural therapy (CBT) is to create positive thought patterns in the patient.

But Dane does not respond positively to CBT - other than with questions. And in the
philosophical questions of whether life should be approached with a positive
attitude, here comes the accusation: it isnǯt a matter of what  right, so much as
what makes him a socially useful individual. Utility, above ethics.

It is a sardonic comment, of course. Possibly another symptom of his disorder. And


this leads to the question: does he want treatment?

Dane is here for two reasons, and not his own will. The first: a penchant for life-
risking activites. And the second- he is a social misfit, sharing little of the interests of
a healthy sixteen year old boy. His mother worries he is abnormal, and I am
expected to fix him- like Lyle fixes broken devices.

When I finally confront Dane with this information, Dane shrugs.

He tells me some bungee jump, and some ride MagCycles. Everyday, life is a
selection of risks.

And that is true as well. The pieces of the puzzle, when put together, fit to read
   . And yet- what if Iǯve pieced them together to form the 
  

Why do people pursue risk?

DzTo feel alive,dz He says, philosophically. It has been a rhetorical question, I have
posed myself but perhaps asked aloud. DzIt is in the presence of death so near that we
feel most alive.dz

Adrenaline, the biology student in me says.

I wonder then if I am looking at the right answer.

Daneǯs responses are clearly coherent. He has mood swings, yet they seem under
control with his art. So why does his mother say he is abnormal? And what do I do
about treating him?

I am beginning to learn that conventional anwers donǯt seem to fit when the
psychological question being asked is of Dane. His whys and the whys I know of
donǯt work together- they are fire on water- inimical and conflicting each other.

Finally, I see no reason to keep him coming back.

Except this: I am fascinated. I am fascinated by this little puzzle of a boy, and


demanding to understand how the pieces of his mind fit together and work. I want
to know his whys. Why is he at ease only with me? Why does he think I understand?
Why doesnǯt he take treatment?

So I let him go.

I never do manage to get him to take his medication or seek further treatment.
I receive a package in the mail two years later. I am surprised it is not electronic
mail- until I see its contents. A worn sketchbook, with the sketch of the apple that I
have always been fascinated by, and a letter.

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Accompanying this package is a curt printout. I learn that in the end, Dane took his
life a few weeks ago, and this package was among the things left, addressed to me.

The guilt sets in- why didnǯt I notice? And could I have done something? After all-
there is much hostility in this society to those of Daneǯs kind, even after so many
years. As his psychologist, I should have known, and should have been able to do
something- to stop him? To help him?

Dane isnǯt the first homosexual patient Iǯve had. And too many of them take their
own lives, because too few of them get treated, and too few of them find any kind of
understanding in this hostile society. Perhaps his bipolar disorder, untreated,
festered and sped up the process.

And why?

The unanswered questions Dane always raises remain, above the guilt and sorrow
that always set in when I know Iǯve failed a patient.

Why did he remember me after all these years? Why did he send a parcel to me?
Was it a final futile gesture, turning to the only person who must have offered some
kind of support? Was it a message in the bottle? A desperate cry for help in the
night?

On many days, I think of patients like Dane, and I hate my job. Because in this age of
technology, we go rushing in to find the answers- and we never think about the
questions we have to ask. People like Dane slip through the cracks and itǯs my job to
catch them. But sometimes, I canǯt stop them- not when they let goǥ
Finally, all I am left with are questions, and realities.

It is morning- and my wall-alarm isnǯt working again. I hurry to get changed and pull
the glass jar of pills from the closet by my bedside. I stare at the blue-red capsules
within, take one out, weigh it in my hand, and contemplate, although Iǯm going to be
late.

I look at a childǯs drawing of an apple- and the question it asks, in a worn


sketchbook, flipped open on my bedside table.

I know what my medication does only too well; I have taken it daily, faithfully, ever
since I failed my Kinsey test, administered when I first sought to enter my
psychology course.

And in the answer I create to the question Dane asks, I put the pill back in the jar,
and close the door of the closet on the jar.

I call Lyle and ask him if he wants to meet up sometime this week. He sounds
surprised to hear me again, says yes, and I set off for a job that maybe I donǯt hate
after all, creating my answers to my own questions, on my face a smile.

(2500 words)


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