Fueled by Joy's support, Patrick had a change of heart.
Patrick accepted me as his patient, and would commence his services two days later.
Chapter 13
WE'VE MET BEFORE
Waiting, isn't it a bitch?
Sit back and think of all the times during your life when you were waiting, waiting for an answer, an outcome, or for something to change. The minutes on the clock don't move; your heart palpitates, and your mind is in between a rock and a hard place. I was waiting. I was waiting for Patrick Lucid to arrive. I wasn't sure what to expect, but I was hopeful he would be the man, the one, who mysteriously came to me in Bricker's office. I was waiting for an imaginary figure to walk through the door, and save me from a life of everlasting fire.
I had a tremendous view from my bedroom window. I could see the visitor's parking lot with precision. My mother already pulled in, and was standing by in the lobby, waiting for our family session with Patrick Lucid. I spoke with my mother briefly the night before, and the sound of her voice was optimistic, because she was excited for me to receive treatment from Patrick. Somewhere on the grapevine, she heard Patrick was the best. I was thinking; I hope so, because I wasn't the run-of-the-mill patient.
*
Forgive me if I change the subject for a minute or two. Isn't it a shame about Doctor Richard Clarkston? What do you think about his suicide? In the United States alone, the median number of suicides per day is one hundred fifty. Genuinely, I am lazy, so I won't calculate the numbers for you; all-the-same, the medial number of suicides per annum in this country is staggering. Let us use myself for example. I attempted suicide, because I truly wanted to die, and bestow life elsewhere. However, many of the thirty-five thousand suicides per annum, (I lied; I did the math for you), aren't caused by internal decisions of the individual. Doctor Richard Clarkston, and I apologize for my language, was a pussy, and he didn't have the courage to kill himself.
So, how did he die?
Spiritual entities have the ability to possess the body of a human, and force the individual into suicide, making it look like they took their own life. Although the signs point in the direction of suicide, considering Clarkston's guilt, he didn't kill himself. Not too many people get their hands on this information, so please, don't keep it secret, share it with the world.
*
Waiting for Patrick to arrive, I was a nervous mess. Standing at the window, with both hands gripping the bars protecting me from jumping, I saw a black SUV pull into the parking lot. Parking several spots from my mother's car, a few minutes had passed before anyone got out. Directly before the driver's side door opened, a cigarette butt flew out of the slightly opened window. I thought, is this Patrick Lucid? Therapists aren't supposed to smoke, especially on hospital grounds. A younger gentleman, probably thirty years-of-age or slightly older, wearing flared jeans and a vintage button up shirt, stepped out of the SUV. I thought for sure; this isn’t Patrick, but I watched him regardless, because he looked like an interesting character. Slowly, the stylish man walked towards the front entrance. The closer he got, the better; I could see him. He had long hair, not rock star long, but surfer-dude long, and it was tied in a pony tail. I thought holy shit the apparition in Bricker's office had long hair.
Before I knew it, the man was walking toward my window. I was brazened while looking at him, especially when he stopped walking, dead on his tracks. He was standing precisely underneath my window, still as could be. I thought, what the hell is going on here? He stood underneath my window, head down for a few seconds. The situation was offbeat, and kind of troublesome. Finally, he moved. He slid what looked like a laptop computer bag off his shoulder, and placed it on the ground. Nonchalantly, he elevated his head in the direction of my window, and that's when I saw his face for the first time. We made eye-contact, and the look we shared will last a lifetime, and many more to come. There he stood, staring at me like he could see into my soul. I didn't back down. I glared at him, matching his fierceness. It was the most electrifying moment of my life, because the man frozen in time with me was indeed the man from my apparition.
*
Patrick waltzed into the hospital after the staring contest with me, and saw Bricker, before the door had time to swing shut. Both greeted each other with a handshake, and engaged in pointless small-talk for several minutes.
Without warning, the half-ass conversation rapidly changed when Patrick asked, "What happened to Doctor Clarkston?"
Bricker's face was squeamish, and his stomach curdled like milk in the hot sun. Falteringly, he said, "We're not going to talk about Clarkston."
"We're not going to talk about Clarkston?" Patrick questioned with sarcasm.
Suddenly, Bricker remembered the immeasurable pain-in-the-ass Patrick was at Children's Haven. Hiding both hands in his pocket and closed off, Bricker said, "This isn't the time or the place to start challenging every word I say. Rebecca Walters is waiting, and we should be attending to her."
Patrick placed his bag onto the floor, then sat down on the same chair that I chose when I first arrived, and with passive aggressiveness in his voice, he said, "My ass isn't leaving this chair until you make a comment about Clarkston. You are a primary therapist at a psychiatric hospital, and you're convincing yourself to swallow thoughts and emotions."
Patrick's obtuse comment struck a nerve with Bricker. Leaning towards Patrick so no one else could hear, Bricker replied, "Listen to me, there is something terribly wrong here, and it scares the hell out of me. I don't want to be involved any longer."
Patrick respected Bricker's honesty, and stood up from his chair. He picked up his bag, smiled, and said, "Let's exorcise the demons."
*
"Hello Ms. Walters, my name is Patrick Lucid."
Standing up from her chair, my mother reached out her hand to greet Patrick, and replied, "It's nice to meet you. I have heard many good things about you."
"I'm sure only half of those things are true." Patrick replied, with a smile.
My mother laughed, and then sat down.
Bricker placed himself on a swivel chair behind his desk, while Patrick sat next to my mother, separated by a table.
My mother sat silently with her legs crossed, unsure who was supposed to speak first. Bricker was organizing a mountain of notes that were scattered across every inch of his desk, preparing himself to present the information at hand. And then there was Patrick. He didn't have anything on his person. His laptop computer bag was lying on the floor in the middle of the room. He didn't even have a pen in his hand. He sat relaxed, chomping on his gum, like he was about to watch an entertaining movie.
Just when Bricker was about to speak, Patrick blurted out, "Ms. Walters, I am officially taking over as your son's primary therapist. Therefore, I have several requests."
Switching her crossed leg, my mother said, "Please, call me Rebecca. And you can request anything; I just want Shawn to get better.”
Patrick certainly had boldness. Requests within the first several minutes, Patrick must have been riding a high horse. Strait off, Patrick requested a discontinuation of my medication management.
He explained, as my mother listened, "Although I have my suspicion Shawn isn't taking his medication anyway, I don't want one psychotropic pill to enter his blood stream."
Bricker, who was obviously disgusted (you could tell from the look upon his face), didn't say anything to Patrick. Once again, my mother was fidgeting, and changed the direction of her crossed leg.
"Why are you so adamant Shawn doesn't take medication?" My mother asked, curiously.
I believe Bricker was interested in an analytical explanation as well. Without dawdling, Patrick answered.
"Shawn's medication is a band-aid, and a road-block. Psychotropic medication clinches an individual's psychological energy into a plastered state, allowing despondency to have full reigns."
Good lord, neither Bricker nor my mother understood a word Patrick said. What did Patrick's gibbe
rish mean?
Stumped on all accounts, my mother said, "With all due respect, I don't know what you are talking about."
Patrick's response was humorous, but all so true.
"Rebecca, honestly, I don't care if you understand or not. I need Shawn to be free of medication, and if you listen, both of you will thank me when it's over."
Enough said, my mother obeyed, and I was never prescribed another pill, ever again.
Patrick's second request was child's play, but sadly, it is rocket science for most people. Bricker, a spectator in his swivel chair, waited to hear what Patrick had to say next. Patrick, forgetting Bricker was in the room was zeroed in. Focused on my mother, Patrick said, "Rebecca, I request that you are one hundred percent honest with me, about everything. I understand you will defend and protect your secrets, but in order to help your son, not only will I be exposing his secrets, but yours as well."
Talk about intimidation, holy hell, my mother turned to stone. As I said earlier, she had a secret, and Patrick wasn't bluffing. My mother knew she had a secret, but she lied anyway. Crossing her right leg, in the opposite direction from Patrick, my mother repeated in a felonious voice, "I'm honest about everything. I'm honest about everything."
Noticing my mother's body language and her reproduced speech pattern, Patrick knew right away she was hiding something. Stoutly, Patrick said, "It is obvious to me you aren't ready. I don't want to rush you, but there will come a time when I must wrestle with your inner monster."
My mother's silence was plentiful, which provided Patrick with insight there were hidden chapters of my story.
*
Patrick's consultation with my mother was finished. My mother exited the office, and had a seat in the waiting room. She would be able to visit with me after my session with Patrick. I was hesitant to enter the office, and meet Patrick for the first time, well, for the initial time in person, that is. My stomach was unsettled, and it felt like I had a thousand butterflies flapping their wings inside of me. I took a deep breath, almost vomiting, and forced myself to walk through the doorway.
Patrick stood up from his chair, reached out his hand, and said, "Hi Shawn, my name is Patrick. I am your new therapist, and it is a pleasure to meet you."
Using my left hand to greet Patrick, my nerves were in overdrive. Uptight, I murmured, "It's nice to meet you too."
What a bungling situation. It's not an everyday occurrence when you meet someone for the first time, whom you've already met. Both of us knew we saw each other in another time, place, and form; however, for the time being, we swept it under the rug. So I thought, and I'm sure Patrick did too, let's ignore the unexplained and focus on therapy for now.
Bricker, still silent in his swivel chair, up and left when Patrick was ready to start his session. I was sitting in the same chair that my mother was, across from Patrick, separated by a table.
The second Bricker closed the door, Patrick didn't waste any time, and like a comic book superhero, Patrick said, "Today we begin."
Without a peep from me, Patrick explained, "Everyone in your life has only seen your surface behaviors. However, I am interested in what prevails underneath your exterior."
In addition, Patrick told me any therapeutic relationship, if it's going to be successful, must attain a level of trust.
With veracity, Patrick said, "The development of trust can take a long time, and the advancement of it is at your pace. I don't care if it takes two days, two weeks, two months, or two years, it's at your pace."
It was comforting to know Patrick was going to develop a relationship with me, before diving head-first into a waterless pool. It's amazing to me that therapists assume, because they're professionals, their patient is automatically comfortable with them. Patrick was different. Not only was he abstractly intelligent, he had something most therapists don't, common sense.
Within those first several minutes with Patrick, I learned a lot. Please allow me to share with you my definition of psychoanalysis. During psychoanalytic treatment, if done correctly, one will learn, unlearn, but most imperative, relearn what they already know. Later in my treatment with Patrick, I realized the down-slide of my illness was my minds' eagerness to forget what happened, and what I had done. Patrick would eventually teach me how to relearn, and place the lost material in my own hands, so I could help myself. Generally speaking, we must remember the bad times that we'd rather forget, because forgetting isn't dismissal from the mind.
Patrick asked me a question, a question; he asks all of his patients, "Shawn, who are you?"
I held my answer hostage for a few seconds, because I wasn't sure where he was going.
Twiddling my thumbs like a basket case, I answered, "Shawn Walters."
“No you’re not.” Patrick replied, faster than the speed of sound.
I coughed, and nearly spit on my shirt. I was thinking; this guy can’t be real, because there was no way he could have known.
After my cough, Patrick explained, "Shawn is only a label, and doesn't signify who you really are. You are what you release, not what the world sees."
Please remember Patrick's quote, not just for my story, but for your own life as well.
Gratifying my knowledge, Patrick knew what he was talking about. Once I settled down, and heard him speak, my nervousness dissipated because I realized he had my best interest. I understood he wouldn't place judgment on what I had done; although, I was going to make him work to figure it out, I was confident he'd steer me in the right direction. My first session was all but over, when I asked, "How long will it take to cure me?"
"I'm not going to cure you. Healing comes from within; you're going to cure yourself."
I was thinking; Christ-All-Mighty, because Patrick was going to make me work. Testing if Patrick really knew what he was talking about, I asked a trick question. "How can I help myself, if I don't know who I am?"
"You know exactly who you are. You and your mother have secrets, and until you say what you need, your life, and strangely enough, my life, isn't going to change."
His answer validated what I was already thinking, Patrick knows what the hell he's talking about.
Before leaving the office, Patrick said one more thing, but I didn't respond. "And Shawn, you and I both know we've met before, so don't play games with me. I came here with a purpose.”
Chapter 14
DANGEROUS COMMUNICATION
Any issue worth solving is worth the emotion felt when reality is staring you in the face.
Patrick Lucid didn't want to take my case, yet he conducted his first session with me anyway. Why do people agree to do things they don't want to do? A long time ago someone once said, in the game of life, some of us are playing the game; where as some of us are watching it. And then, there are the others, who are not even in the fucking ballpark.
Was Patrick controlling the game, or was he a spectator from a distance?
Either way, someone had to clean the mess polluting the entire stadium.
Patrick returned home after his session with me, and as soon as he entered the house, Joy asked, “So, how did it go?”
Of course, Joy's question was referring to my session, but Patrick rashly diverted his response. “How did what go?”
“The session dummy,” Joy said with a playful smile.
Warily, Patrick answered, as he moved into the living room, “The session went fine, but I wasn't able to gather any information regarding our haunting.”
Joy was foiled, and was hoping Patrick would gather at least a clue into my presence, because she wanted my spirit exorcised as soon as possible. This was the reason why she wanted Patrick to take my case in the first place. The motivation of both Patrick and Joy were backwards. Typically, Joy wouldn't want Patrick involved in something potentially dangerous. On the other hand, Patrick would cut off a finger to have a case such as mine.
Why were there drastic differences this time around?
The answer is simple, because it affects them p
ersonally. However, this leaves us with one more question.
What personal connection does Patrick Lucid have with me?
*
The next method of communication wasn't originally in my plan, because of the dangerous repercussions in which could have arisen. Still, everything turned out fine, at least in my mind. After another hapless and semi-silent evening, Patrick and Joy went to bed around ten. A few hours in, roughly after two in the morning, I decided to pay Joy another visit. Now before I explain what I did, let's set something straight. Everyone, or almost everyone, at some point during their lives has known a sleepwalker. Sleepwalking is a strange and unexplained phenomenon that perplexes the stuffing out of medical professionals. Of course, there are theories, but no one really knows. Patrick believes the majority of sleepwalkers are experiencing psychological reactions. And when I say the majority, I'm referring to ninety-five to ninety-nine percent. However, what causes the other percentile to maneuver without consciousness? Well, allow me to get back to the story.
Like I said, the time was roughly after two in the morning, and Joy was sleeping when I decided to take over her mind and body. Patrick was zonked on his back, which is his dreaming position, so I knew he was out cold and unaware of what was happening. Much like the other time I possessed Joy, she rigidly pulled the covers from her nestled comfort, and stood on her feet. Wearing a white T-shirt and underwear, Joy crept from the bedroom, down the stairs, and mounted herself like a statue. Standing erected and unaware, in front of the door leading outside; Joy reached to the right and snatched her car keys from the hook. Methodically and ever so frightening, Joy twisted the doorknob and ventured outside. Barefoot and half dressed; I guided Joy into her vehicle.
As I'm telling my story, I'm attempting not to be predictable. But, you can probably see where this is going. You may not know where I'm taking her; in contrast, it's luminous, Joy's unconsciously going to drive a car. When Joy sat in the drivers' seat and turned over the ignition, Patrick was waking from his dream. Rolling anew he noticed Joy wasn't in bed. In a flash, Patrick realized Joy was under attack. Seeing headlights shine into the bedroom, Patrick leaped from his bed and opened the blinds. When Patrick took a gander of what time it read on the clock, two ten in the morning, he shouted, "Son of a bitch!" Patrick saw both of Joy's hands on the steering wheel; head down, with her chin resting on her chest. Hastily, Patrick slid into his wind-pants, almost falling, and then ran downstairs. Simultaneously, Patrick placed his feet into his sandals and opened the front door. However, it was too late; Joy was already driving away.
When Worlds Collide Page 9