My mother arrived at the hospital to meet Bricker and participate in a family session. The family session was my mother's first trip back to the hospital since my seizure, so she was extremely excited to see me.
Bricker introduced himself to my mother, "Hi Rebecca. My name is Doctor Bricker, and I am Shawn's new therapist."
Quickly, my mother asked, "How is my son doing?"
Since Bricker was an honest man, he didn't mix words.
"Shawn could be better. My staff and I haven't seen any improvements. He has pervasive thoughts in-which he is dying, specifically from some kind of brain trauma. Furthermore, his dissociative hallucinations are getting worse. I don't have a specific or formal diagnosis for him, because I need more time to evaluate his symptoms.”
My mother was fine with his response; however, she wanted answers, but I believed she already had them.
The family session began after I entered Doctor Bricker's office, and embraced my mother. Shortly after the introduction, hug, and what-not, Bricker allowed me the independence to speak first.
With minimal hesitation, I confessed, “I’m scared because I’m going to kill again.”
Right away, my mother responded with a short fuse, "Jesus Christ Shawn; you didn't kill anyone."
Thankfully, Bricker knew what he was doing, and took charge of the session. Addressing my mother's comment, he said, "Now, Rebecca, you must allow your son to speak his mind. When you respond like that, you are decreasing communication, and limiting Shawn's progress."
My mother wasn't serene when Bricker confronted her, but it worked, because she kept her mouth shut. The room was quiet, and I was about to share my thoughts when I was interrupted. This time, the interruption wasn't my mother. Believe it or not, I was actually side-tracked by a picture on Doctor Bricker's desk.
The picture on Bricker's desk that held my attention captive like a prison guard was of his family standing poolside in their backyard.
Candidly, I said to Bricker, "I get the worst feeling when I am reminded of a swimming pool."
Bricker, knowing all about my incident, was authentically therapeutic. He responded to me with sympathy, "Shawn; I understand, and I am sorry. I should have been proactive and hid the picture before you entered my office."
Without asking, I stood up from my chair, walked across the room, and grabbed Bricker's picture. Holding the picture in my hand, I quietly and calmly walked back to my seat, and sat down. Intensely surveying the picture, I had a flashback of my pool party.
As tears leaked from my eyes and strolled down my face, I wasn't sure what to say or how to act. So, I did what felt right. I turned my head to the right, and smiled at my mother. Then, I turned my head to the left, and smiled at Doctor Bricker. The smile upon my face wasn't natural. As a matter-of-fact, my smile was quite disturbing. My face looked plastic, as if the muscles were forced in a smile position. Neither Doctor Bricker nor my mother was prepared for my next move.
My smile was still in a sheltered position, when I mimicked a female voice, and began to sing. My song of choice was IF YOU DON'T KNOW ME BY NOW by Simply Red.
In a botched-up female voice, while holding Doctor Bricker's picture, I sang, “If you don't know me by now, you will never, never, never know me.”
Doctor Bricker and my mother were mute. Holy Mother Mary of God were they stunned by my behavior. Sorry to say, I didn't get the reaction I wanted, because they sat motionless with their thumbs up their ass. Therefore, I tried again with more emotion.
“If you don't know me by now, you will never, never, never know MEEEE!”
That's the emotion and reaction I wanted. When I sang the verse the second time, using my preposterous female voice of course, I shifted to the most masculine of voices when I shouted me, the last word in the verse. However, my forceful shout and change of demeanor wasn't anything compared to what happened to Doctor Bricker's picture. When I shouted me, simultaneously, the glass picture frame mysteriously shattered in my hands. After the frame broke, my mother spastically ran to the other side of the room. Doctor Bricker's ass jumped several inches off of his seat, while his pen flew from his hand. Both gawked at me without saying a word, as I slowly walked across the room, and placed Bricker's shattered picture on his desk.
I sat quietly, waiting for someone to say something, but the words of Doctor Bricker and my mother were imprisoned inside their stomachs. They were scared of me, and it wasn't a good feeling. Although their fear was justified, Doctor Bricker and my mother weren't in any danger. Honestly, I wanted to talk, but I didn't know how to start the conversation. With sub-par social skills, I rhetorically asked Doctor Bricker, “What are you looking at?”
Before Doctor Bricker answered, I yelled at my mother, “Jesus Christ mom, sit down!”
My mother sat down, and the pink elephant in the room was ignored.
Not a single person in the entire world, including my mother and Bricker, understood my problem.
Bricker was intrigued and concerned; therefore he asked with a warm heart, "Talk to me buddy, what's wrong?"
In a round-about-way, I wanted to tell him, but I couldn't. I gave him a fraction, pieces of the truth, like most people do when they have a secret.
As if I was in confession and trying to reach the pearly gates, I said, "I am shameful, and guilty of my own wrong doing. I did something terrible, and I don't deserve to live."
Bricker was at sixes and sevens with his thoughts; he looked at my mother, then looked at me, and asked, "Shawn; do you feel guilty for drowning? Do you believe it was your fault?"
I was thinking, and wanted to scream; Of course it was my fault! But, I didn't. Instead, I concealed my secret. "Yeah; I think I could have prevented it.”
I could have prevented it, at least the pool party incident, that is.
My mother, finally breaking through her shock, asked Bricker, "Do you think it would be possible if you and I could speak in private?"
Personally, I didn't take any offense to my mother's request, because she as well had issues buried six feet under.
Without indecision, Bricker replied to my mother, "Sure, that would be great."
He then turned to me, and said, "Shawn, please enter the hallway, and have one of the orderlies take you to your room. I'll have someone bring you to my office after I am finished speaking with your mother."
The second I left the room, my mother got down to business. She wasn't sure how Bricker was going to respond, but my mother had some significant insight to share. Completely sincere, my mother said, "Doctor Bricker, you may think I am crazy, but I'm going to say it anyway. I think Shawn is possessed by an evil spirit."
First of all, I heard my mother say many absurd expositions during my life, but this one tops the cake. Seriously, what would make her, or anyone, think I was possessed? If I told you upfront, right now, I wasn't possessed, would you believe me? Possessed, or not possessed, that is the question.
What did Bricker think of my mother’s hypothesis?
Let's see; Bricker was a professional in the field of psychology, so he couldn't, and wouldn't, entertain the notion that I was possessed by an evil spirit.
He told my mother, as genuinely as possible, "Rebecca, I am a man of science. I will do my best to treat your son, but I am not a spiritual healer; therefore, I don't believe Shawn is possessed." Although Bricker wasn't engrossed in my mother's transcendent philosophy, he was interested in her thought process. So, he asked her, "Why do you believe Shawn is possessed by an evil spirit?"
With conviction, my mother confessed, "The night of Shawn's suicide attempt, I prayed, requesting God to stay away from my son. I followed my request by opening the door for other spirits to heal my child."
Bricker paused and soaked up the data like a sponge, and replied, "Rebecca, there are things in this world we can and cannot control, and I think this line is blurry for you."
Previously, I said I liked Bricker, and I was reinforced, especially after he made that comment to m
y mother. Control versus powerlessness, what a great concept. I am happy that Bricker brought it up, because I was about to encounter something I couldn't control, or explain.
*
I'm reproducing this situation, hopefully, with enough emotion and detail to provide you with an understanding of how powerless and confused I was. The place of activity was in Doctor Bricker's office, just minutes after my mother left. The room was peaceful; I was unruffled, at least to start, and Bricker was harmonious. Bricker was sitting behind his desk, and I was directly in front of him, on a chair that probably cost the hospital an arm and a leg, when Bricker asked, "Shawn, how can I help you better?"
It was refreshing to see someone care about my needs, sincerely. But if Bricker had to ask, then he was never going to be able to help me with my problems, or be acquainted with who I really was. Tactfully, I said, "I appreciate your effort, but you are not the one who can help me. When I came back to life, I brought something with me."
When I said, I brought something with me, I saw Bricker's throat plummet into his stomach, because my mother's un-fleshly proposal was still fresh in his head. With thoughts revolving around and round, Bricker asked the first thing that came into his mind, "If I'm not the one who can help you, who is?"
I'll give Bricker credit, because that was the one-million-dollar question. Who was going to help me? Honestly, I didn't have the answer; however, I was certain if I were to meet him or her, I'd just know, like instinct. Bricker was waiting on a response, and out of dignity, I answered with the truth, "I don't know, but I wish I did. Bricker, you're a good man; therefore, I don't want you to get involved in my case."
"What do you mean?"
"Bricker, I am a murderer, and I don't want you to be associated with me when I kill again."
"Shawn, Shawn, you didn't murder anyone." Bricker vibrantly emphasized. "You are wrapped so tight in your delusions. You can’t distinguish between real or make believe."
Doctor Bricker was wrong; I wasn't delusional, not even close. I was a murderer.
This is when things really got strange. I wasn't certain what caused it, but I lost control. I was already fixated on who I murdered when my entire mind felt like it was going to detonate through its core and into a different world. Everyone, mostly everyone, has heard the phrase, he or she looks like they have seen a ghost, and now I can add myself to the list.
Bricker was talking to me; I could see him fine and his lips were moving, but truth be told, I couldn't hear him. There weren't any outside noises distracting me, and nothing was wrong with my hearing, but I couldn't hear Bricker, or any other sound in the realm of life. I started breathing heavy, due to my fear and confusion, and it was burdensome enough, where I almost hyperventilated. I didn't know what to do or how to make it stop, so I deliriously slapped myself across the face, multiple times. Completely manic, I shouted from the top of my lungs, "Make it stop! Make it stop!" I must have yelled loud enough, because someone heard me, and that someone wasn't Bricker.
Similar to a rainbow appearing before my eyes, without warning, he arose directly behind Bricker's right shoulder. Bricker didn't and couldn't see the man standing behind him, but he did notice my glare of concentration, and prepared himself to dispassion another hallucination set forth by my disturbed mind. The man standing behind Bricker eclipsed into the room like he was transported from a different location; yet, he wasn't from an unusual generation or dimension. He looked like an ordinary man who was lounging in his house. He was roughly thirty years old, give-or-take a few years, and he had no idea where he was. I assumed; the man was just as confused as I was. His long brown hair, which had blond highlights, was wet and drooping over his face, like he just finished taking a shower. He was wearing a pair of vintage low cut jeans, and a black tank top, exposing his muscular body. He was an attractive man, and judge if you wish, if you knew my entire story, I would've fantasized about him in a seductive way. Although I didn't see much of his face because of the positioning of his hair, I did see enough to determine he wanted to say something.
Allow me to untangle the knots binding the perplexity of this situation. My secret, which I preserved like an ancient artifact, wasn't to blame for the man standing in Bricker's office. I understand this is painstaking for you to figure out right now, but I wasn't responsible for bringing the man into the room, and by the look on the man's face, he wasn't there by choice, which told me, there had to be a third party involved. For a split second, I questioned in silence, Could the third party be the person I murdered? Out loud, talking to myself, I answered, "No! There’s not a shot in hell!" Instead of interpreting who the third party was, I placed my efforts on the man in the room.
Eyeballing the man only I could see, I asked him, "Who are you?"
Bricker, watching me communicate with an imaginary person, asked, "Who are you talking to?"
For the love of God, Bricker was distracting me. I couldn't hear his voice, but I knew he was talking. In a frustrated resonance, I muttered at Bricker, "Please, leave me alone. I'm trying to speak with someone."
Immediately, not complying with my request, Bricker replied, "Who? Who are you speaking with?"
Ignorantly, I yelled, "Shut up!"
Sometimes, the wrong words hit the right spot, because Bricker caught my drift and did what I demanded.
Again, with hesitance, I asked the man, "Who are you?"
Slightly overconfident, the man didn't answer my question, but he did speak.
"Since you have my attention, I'll be the one asking the questions. Are you the one responsible for bringing me here?"
"No." I answered, as I shook my head back and forth.
The man believed me. And I believed he wasn’t a stranger to a situation like this, based on what he said next.
"I will be sent back any second now, so please answer me honestly. Do you need help?"
"Yes. Yes, I do," I responded desperately.
Whether it was my disparity or the involvement of a third party, I found the man, the only man, who was going to help me.
Before the man vanished into the thin air, he said, prophetically, "I'll help you. I don't know when, where, or how, but I'm sure we will meet again, and when we do I will set you free."
And that was it, he was gone.
Bricker didn't have any choice but to send me to the reflection room; however, I didn't challenge his authority. Maybe I was losing my mind, but the apparition of a man who might not exist provided me with hope, much like the illusions many of you have. And it was my faith in him that carried me through the night.
Chapter 9
ARE YOU A BELIEVER?
Bricker left the hospital, went home, and analyzed what happened. Unsuccessful and exhausted from a long day, Bricker decided to get some sleep. Although he was drained and dead to the world, Bricker couldn't sleep, because he was hypersensitive to everything, and started questioning ordinary sounds he had heard every night for the past twenty years.
Can our thoughts create imagery that isn't real?
Bricker told my mother he was a man of science, but from this point forward, I believe he questioned science as well.
Here's another question, do spiritual entities exist, and if so, why can some people see them when others can't?
Bricker couldn't answer these questions; therefore, his confusion kept him awake the entire night.
Bricker was at a crossroad. He wanted what was best for me, but he knew he couldn't provide what was necessary. Bricker wasn't sure if my symptoms were psychological or caused by something beyond explanation. He thought, as he lied awake in bed, maybe Rebecca was right. Could she have actually opened the door to another world? I've said this a million times, if a therapist doesn't know what is causing a patient's symptom, he or she sure as hell can't cure them. As Bricker tossed and turned, I was doing the same thing in my bed at the hospital.
*
I couldn't sleep because I was thinking of the man who claimed he would set me free. I was wonderi
ng, what is his name? Where did he come from? At the same time, I asked myself, did my mind create the vision? Am I actually crazy? I wasn't sure but instinctively, I believed he was real and would do as he said. I also believed that he was misunderstood, like me. I anticipated we had something in common that most people wouldn't understand even if the likeness sat on their face.
2:30 a.m…
My restlessness got the best of me, so I decided to get out of bed and do something productive. When I stood up from my bed, I squirted half a bottle of water down my throat to quench my thirst, before sublimating my bedeviled thoughts. On the middle shelf of my three-tier organizational stand, I pulled out a notebook and a pack of colored pencils, and drew what was on my mind, other than the nameless man. Sitting on the floor, with my legs crossed, Indian-style, I drew a picture of a teenage girl. The girl was fifteen years old, and was extremely pretty. She was tall and was slightly underweight, but healthy. Her skin was smooth, and she had long brown hair. Covering her almost flawless body was a beautiful black dress, which looked like it would be worn on special occasions. In my drawing, I placed the girl in the front passenger seat of a red car.
I remember drawing this picture, and how it put my galloping mind at ease, allowing me to feel all warm inside and almost whole again. I used to feel this way all the time, until my world exploded, fracturing me into pieces, and turning me into a murderer. That day, that horrible and disgusting day, changed who I was and how I saw the world. I became vindictive and capable of anything, just to get a second chance. Remembering that dreadful day influenced me to adjust the details in my drawing. I dug through the box of colored pencils, and scooped out the reddest of all of them, symbolizing blood. My hand, including the colored pencil in it, developed a life of its own when I drew blood pouring out of the girl's eyes, mouth, and nose. When I actually noticed what I drew, and how I defaced the beautiful girl, my heart started accelerating like the engine of a race car. Approaching an anxiety attack, I yelled hysterically, "There's too much blood! Oh my God, there's too much blood!"
When Worlds Collide Page 6